


What Are You Going to Do With Your Life?

by Shalebridge_Cradle



Category: Six - Marlow/Moss
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:15:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25163767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shalebridge_Cradle/pseuds/Shalebridge_Cradle
Summary: Catherine Parr wakes up, and something is wrong.(It only gets worse from there.)
Comments: 81
Kudos: 187





	1. Chapter 1

Catherine Parr wakes up, and something is wrong.

This is not her bedchamber. Hers’ is dark and dingy, thick with the smell of sweat and blood and death. This room is spacious, light pouring in through the window, and a bed with blue sheets. There’s a dresser, and a mirror, a solid wooden desk, and a bookcase. And yet, while Parr recognises what they are, each item looks distinctly alien, put together in a way she doesn’t understand.

She doesn’t understand any of this, actually. Parr remembers the final moments before all this. She knows she’s supposed to be dead.

Part of her wants to stay in this room until she dies again, too mistrustful of all that’s around her, but she hasn’t gotten anywhere by being afraid to act. Besides, she reasons, she’s already left this mortal coil once – she can only gain from the experience.

She comes out onto a hallway, near-painfully well-lit. Parr peeks out of the window at the other end, and sees little but rolling green fields. No clues at all as to where she is, apart from on an upper story of a building.

Turning away in semi-defeat, Parr takes a closer look at the paintings on the white walls.

Oh, _these_ look familiar. The one near the room she came out of is, of course, herself. She remembers posing for it. The others – well, she recognises Anne of Cleves’ relatively accurate portrait. Jane Seymour is there, she notes, and Catherine of Aragon. The others are familiar, and she can guess who they are - but there shouldn't be any pictures of them left.

One piece of artwork is unfamiliar to her, however. A woodcut print. A bloated, bearded man sits up in his canopied bed – Parr’s most well-known husband, clearly – surrounded by six women. Each is labelled. Parr notices the figure bearing her name (spelt with a ‘C’, she notes) stands away from the others, a serene smile upon her face. The others range from suspicious to actively threatening – Catherine of ‘Arragon’ has an axe raised and ready, and Anne Boleyn points to an executioner’s block, a finger gesturing across her neck.

She has very little time to wonder how long the artist lasted. Parr’s ears pick up a noise from the lower level that grabs her attention – rasping, gasping. A death rattle.

“Who goes?” Parr calls.

The sound stops. Parr is both grateful and frightened by this; she so despises not knowing things.

“…What?” Comes the reply. A female voice.

“I said, who goes? Who are you? Why am I here?”

There are footsteps, and before Parr can run and hide, a figure comes around the corner and up the stairs.

She is dressed, thought it’s no fashion Parr is familiar with. A red skirt, far too short, and a dark upperbody. No petticoat. She is staring at Parr with deep suspicion in her eyes.

“Who are _you_?” The stranger considers her, then frowns. “Why are you up there? I have checked all the rooms – the place is empty, or meant to be.”

Parr curtseys, just slightly. If this woman was here before her, probably good to show some respect, even if she is just in a nightdress. “Catherine Parr, Dowager Lady Burgh, Dowager Lady Latimer. Former queen consort to King Henry VIII.”

“I have met Catherine Parr. You don’t look like her.”

Well, she tried. “I cannot recall making your acquaintance. May I ask who you are, who claims to know me so well?”

“Anna von _Jülich_ - _Kleve_ - _Berg_ , _also_ former queen consort, and The King’s Beloved Sister.”

“You don’t look like yourself either, then.”

Anna shrugs. “I quite famously do not. You, on the other hand, have no excuse.”

Oh. So it’s a joke.

Perhaps.

Parr sighs. “Where are we?”

“Purgatory, I assume. I don’t suppose you remember dying, do you?”

Not the moment itself, Parr thinks, but certainly what led up to it. Fading in and out of consciousness, the pain and weakness, the regret that she wouldn’t live to see dear Mary grow up, to teach her how she could survive in such an unforgiving world. Accursed Thomas – she thought he was the one…

“Would not recommend it,” she mutters.

“Nor I. To add to that theory, there are quite a few things in this house that are clearly the work of divine power. See here.”

Anna beckons, and Parr descends the stairs.

It seems like just one big room down here. Parr spots a rug, a small table, and some seats surrounding a large window with nothing but darkness through it. Strange. All the others are normal…

“I have not deduced what that’s meant to do,” Anna explains. “It is possible for me to get results from these, however.”

Anna turns, gesturing to the shining silver box (cupboard?) behind her. She opens the door, and Parr is met by a cold wind and a glow from inside. Thankfully, Anna shuts it before Parr can ponder it any further.

“There is a pot that boils the water inside with the flick of a little lever. That box there – fire appears from nothing if you press on one of those knobs. What mortal man would have access to that?”

“I _do_ have a question,” Parr says slowly. “If we _are_ in Purgatory, why are you here first when you died after I did?”

Anna makes a face. “Time only exists on Earth? I’m uncertain.”

“Alright, why am _I_ here, then? Why isn’t there anyone else? What are we supposed to do to earn salvation?”

“Well, I’ve been singing hymns, but I’m unsure how effective it is, if at all. As to your presence… are we meant to test each other?”

Parr would much rather not get involved with that. She steeples her fingers, thinking deeply. Suddenly, she looks to Anna.

“You say you’ve checked the house over. How many bedrooms are there in this place?”

Anna looks at her with confusion. “Why is that…? Um, six. I think there are six.”

Parr waits for Anna to make the connection, and when her predecessor’s face goes blank, she knows she has it.

“Well. Good to know it will not be just us.”

-

Even with two heads, always better than one, there were some things that still didn’t make sense. They have figured out the silver box in the kitchen; it’s meant to keep things cold, though they’re still lost on how it glows. They’ve learnt about how to turn the lights on and off in each room, but not how they get so bright so quickly. The front door? The handle refuses to turn, even after the latch is undone. Perhaps it is only there to taunt them.

There’s a study off of the main floor. It has a little desk, a handsome collection of books, and the smaller cousin of the big black window attached to a box with no lid. It’s a good thing that Parr has her own smaller library in her bedroom, because she wouldn’t be able to stop staring at that thing in here. It’s a mystery they can’t solve, and she hates that.

Then there’s the little white card she found.

_Welcome!_

_Catherine Parr_

A ‘C’ again. And the copy of _Lamentation_ _of a Sinner_ on her bookshelf has it with a ‘K’. Honestly, the whole thing’s making Parr doubt her own identity.

“That’s odd,” Anna says from over Parr’s shoulder, “that had _my_ name on it when I first woke up.”

“Witchcraft, I suppose, like with the windows. If it changes again, we could use it to predict when Katherine Howard will get here.”

“Howard?”

“Well, if it was you first, who died last, then me, who died fifth, the wife who died fourth will show up next. Katherine Howard.”

Anna does not respond.

“’Tis either that or Henry,” Parr adds, her own attempt at a joke. Still, no answer comes.

The look on Anna’s face when Parr turns to check on her is unexpected. Anna’s eyes don’t find anything in particular – or, something that isn’t here. They speak of deep sadness, and perhaps regret, where words fail her.

Parr… doesn’t really know what to do with this. She might know what caused it; Katherine was Anna’s maid of honour, wasn’t she? They’d known each other, before and after the annulled marriage. Parr doesn’t know how fourth and fifth thought, though, so she can’t know the right words to say to make this sudden display of emotion go away.

“New Years’.” Anna finally mumbles, terse. “1541. Henry had gone. We danced. End of the year, no longer queen. 1542…” She brings the edge of her hand down onto the opposite palm. Chop.

“You’ll be able to see her again soon,” Parr tries.

“I’ll be able to… actually, no. I don’t think I _can_ explain what happened.”

Parr doesn’t _know_ what happened, apart from the beheading, which she doesn’t believe Anna had any say in. Yet, that guilt still wells in her eyes.

“I wish I could have done something,” Anna says quietly – not to Parr. Not to anyone, really. It’s the most vulnerability she’s shown in a long time, and Parr gets the impression this isn’t something she’d let just anyone see. “I told myself there was nothing that _could_ be done. Was there?”

Upstairs, Parr ponders the woodcut again. ‘Catherine Howard’ holds her own severed head in her hands, wearing a small smile as she beholds the man who killed her. She would be returning next, if her theory was correct. How much of that pain would follow her here, and how would Anna and Parr be able to assist her? There is no question of their willingness to do so, but neither of them had any idea what they were going to be dealing with.

Parr straightens, goes to her room, examines the books on her shelf. Yes, she thought that might be it – _Six Wives of Henry VIII_. She opens it, and starts to…

…What. What is this?

Most of the text is fine. Some words she recognises, though they are spelt wrong, some are fragments, and others are completely foreign to her. She checks the back – there are long lines, numbers, and another word she’s familiar with, ‘English’.

 _Another_ _mode of speech_ , Parr thinks to herself. _Must be_. It doesn’t change the fact struggling to read is probably her worst nightmare, one she’s learned five other languages to be rid of.

Her eyes flick to her own work, _Lamentation_ , where ‘ _Sinner_ ’ is also spelt wrong. It’s meant to have a ‘y’, Catherine knows. She wrote it.

…She wrote it.

She knows her own words.

Catherine flips through the pages. Yes. This text has changed, too, but she knows what it is meant to be. She has paper, she has a pen – _a lot of pens, actually_ , she thinks as she opens a desk drawer, and the ink seems to be inside of them. Excellent.

This new world could be conquered.

Parr sits down, and starts to write.

-

Anna knocks rapidly on Parr’s door.

“It changed.”

Parr looks up, blinking. She’s been so absorbed in her work, she needs a few moments to reorient herself. “What?"

Anna hands over the little white card. Parr reads it, then rereads it.

_Welcome!_

_Katherine Howard_

“Oh.” A ‘K’? Is there no such thing as consistency?

“I don’t know when it changed when you arrived,” Anna rattles on, unusually anxious. “I don’t know how long it will be before she gets here.”

“…You alright?”

“Fine, fine.” Obviously not true. “I have the sort of… general feeling of what I want to say to her, but the words I haven’t got down yet. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t stop that horrible man from killing you, or the other horrible man from taking advantage of you’. Doesn’t sound good, does it?”

“I wouldn’t open with that,” Parr concedes.

“I wasn’t allowed to see her after the charges were laid. I’d like to be able to hold her and tell her it’s alright now – but I don’t know if it is.”

“You _could_ hold her, though.”

“After asking first.”

“You might have a bit of time to think about the best way to do it. Maybe.”

“As you say. As you say,” Anna says, not at all convinced of that.

The mood in the house was suddenly quite different. After wandering about, lost and mildly concerned, they now had a clear point in time to await with fear and morbid anticipation. Like walking down the aisle all over again. Anna’s leg jiggles as she mumbles to herself, sometimes in English, sometimes in her native language. Catherine in searching the house for anything that might be of use to a goal she doesn’t understand – bandages, books which she still can’t fully read, pillows, handkerchiefs.

When she hears an unfamiliar shriek, a series of thuds, and sobbing, she calls for Anna to come upstairs.

“Are you ready?” Parr questions outside the offending door, arms filled with possible comforts.

“Absolutely not,” Anna replies, “but I cannot let this go on any longer.”

Parr nods, and, taking a deep breath, opens the door.

It’s _almost_ like the woodcut. A corpse holding its own head, standing above a bed – but _this_ face is looking at what’s left of itself, tears staining its cheeks, all of its muscles trembling like a leaf in the wind.

The next thing Parr knows is that Anna von Kleve is on the floor. Katherine Howard’s head joins her with a wet _thwap_.


	2. Chapter 2

Howard says that the last thing she remembers was the sound of the executioner’s axe coming down, then she was here. Her initial thoughts were that it was all just a terrible dream, which would have been nice, wouldn’t it?

But, no. The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes (something she wasn’t expecting to do) was that she was in bed with a headless corpse. Awful in itself, the other two agreed. As she moved to get away, the body pushed _itself_ off the bed, exactly as she would have done – but her point of view didn’t change at all, despite the fact she felt the sheets beneath her fingers as she struggled.

That was when Katherine figured out it was her _own_ body she’d been staring at, which was just…aagh. Parr doesn’t want to think about it in words, because that would make it too real.

Once the bandages were in place around her neck, the first thing Howard requested was a hug. Of course she was obliged.

Anna sits at the opposite end of the table from Parr once more, one hand on Katherine’s (“They spelled my name with a ‘K’,” she observes, looking at the card), the other pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Purgatory, I am telling you,” she says. “There’s a reason removing a person’s head from their body is a death sentence.”

“I don’t want to rule out other options that might be true.”

“What other option _is_ there? This obviously isn’t heaven, but it has to be the afterlife!”

“Hell,” Katherine proposes, flatly.

“I would expect more people, if it were Hell,” Parr responds. “How about this – we’re still on Earth, but we aren’t alive?”

“We’re still moving, aren’t we? We aren’t rotting, are we?! If we are dead, and -” Anna jerks her head towards Katherine – “why are we doing one and not the other?”

“Have you checked? Is your heart still beating?” Parr counters.

Anna takes this in, then shifts uncomfortably.

“I’d rather not,” she mutters, before stating more confidently, “but it wouldn’t prove anything if I did!”

Parr puts a hand to her chest, holds her breath. There’s… something there, sluggish and faint. She can’t shake the feeling that it wouldn’t support life, however. Then there’s a the fact she hasn’t actually eaten anything since she woke, nor does she feel any need to. That’s part of life, is it not?

“I don’t need to doubt my existence, in light of everything else,” she groans.

“I know. That is why I’m not checking.”

“What is there to do in the afterlife?” Howard asks. “Apologies, just wondering.”

Parr thinks for a moment. Nice of Katherine to try and distract her, at least. “Plenty of books to read – um, sort of. Needlework. Singing hymns.” Anna was right, it isn’t working.

“What about the door?”

“The front one? Can’t open it. We did the latch, but the handle won’t turn.”

Sufficiently intrigued by the mystery, Katherine gets up, walks to the door and turns the little metal bit in the centre of the handle. There’s a click.

Silence.

“Well, now I just feel foolish,” Anna mutters to herself.

Parr turns the handle, and the door swings inward.

It is _not_ what is through the windows.

Glittering towers rise high above them. Bright lights on every corner, strange contraptions lining the streets, smooth and shiny like a beetle’s carapace.

And people. Swathes of people, travelling in every direction over grey stone pathways. None can spare more than a passing glance at Parr’s consternation.

Katherine is outside before anyone can stop her, and Anna quickly follows suit. To Parr’s relief, they only go as far as the stairs, not to be caught up in the River Styx behind them.

“The windows are all boarded up,” says Howard, increasingly concerned. “How can we see something that is not there?”

Anna sets a hand on Katherine’s shoulder. “Madam Parr? I’m going to say it ends in a draw.”

-

Katherine’s outlook improves over the following days. Going outside is still a bit much (to say nothing of the metaphysical implications), but she’s an eager assistant in her fellow Catherine’s translation efforts, and absolutely delighted to be reunited with Anna. She tries everything she can think of with the mysterious devices in the house, and asks all sorts of questions. Many of them can’t be answered, but they do get them thinking. Of course the box that makes fire is a stove. Of course the self-boiling pot is a kettle. They were too preoccupied with their own idea of what those items looked like to notice all the parts were in place.

One of those questions sticks with Catherine. It’s not that it’s particularly deep, or emotional. It’s quite simple, really.

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

Parr frowns. Night has indeed fallen, as it has many times before (Though she’s not sure how what’s outside the windows has changed… never mind). The only change in her routine is that the little light on her desk is now on.

“How long have I been awake?” She asks.

“Do you do this every night?”

“I believe so.”

“Then, over a week. At least.”

Bewildered, Parr slumps back in her chair. Books for cross-referencing and papers cover her desk, empty pens scattered amongst her research; fallen soldiers in the campaign of understanding. Yes, she’d slept since waking up in this new bed, but because it felt like what she was supposed to do at that time, not because she’d needed to.

“Sorry. Should I not have mentioned it?”

“No, no,” Parr replies, breathless. “I just haven’t been thinking of it. You’d think dead people would do it more often, with all the talk of ‘eternal rest’.”

“I was looking forward to it.” Katherine mumbles.

Immediately, Parr rises from her trance, facing a rather surprised Howard.

“Is everything alright, Katherine? Are we doing enough? You know you can talk to us if you need it.”

“Oh, don’t misunderstand,” Katherine quickly corrects, “I’m well enough. This is simply not what I expected death to be. I wasn’t feeling all that content when I died, which I’m sure you can understand, and I’d hoped for a bit of respite, from… well, everything. Feeling.”

“Did you find it?”

“A bit. I have room to breathe, here. I have the freedom I lacked, but not too much. And no-one touches me when I don’t want them to.”

“And you can sleep.”

“And I can sleep, peacefully.” Pause. “Do you know, once you die, having your head separated from your body doesn’t hurt?”

“I did not know.” _Because I don’t even want to consider it._

“It is cold where it shouldn’t be, but otherwise manageable.”

“Really?”

“I’m looking forward to all that I can do, now my sentence is served.”

 _Bu_ _t how much is that, really?_ _What is left for us here, or out there, in this deathly state of ours’? What life is there to live if there_ is _no life?_

But Parr doesn’t say any of that. Instead, she says, “And we will find out what that is together.”

-

_The world is stained as if through coloured glass. A procession travels by her – familiar faces all. Only Anne of Cleves, as she once was, turns to look, but naught can stop the march._

_A council of lords surrounds a young boy in a crown. She knows this boy. He dips his fingers in ink, runs them over parchment. A robed man – her brother-in-law, Edward – takes it, and weeps. The paper flutters from his fingers, carried by its own wind, and she follows idly._

_She sees her husband, Thomas, Elizabeth close by. Watches as the order whips in the wind, flies straight and true through her once-beloved’s neck._

_But she is iron, and feels nothing._

“ _What shall I do? Where is it?”_

_Her ward, Jane Grey, pats the ground in front of her, blindfolded and lost. Mary, her stepdaughter, grey and stern, looms above, clutching a crucifix to the point of drawing blood, dripping down on Jane. Behind them, England burns on a pyre._

_But she is marble, and feels nothing._

_Elizabeth, resplendent in pearls and gems, but so much older. Looking forward. A rose withers and dies, its remains left in an old, dusty tome. She blinks, and all are gone. Nothing more than blood and ash._

_But she is a memory, and feels nothing._

Catherine wakes once more, and feels something.


	3. Chapter 3

The day comes, eventually, when the little white card’s script changes once more.

_Welcome!_

_Jane Seymour_

Howard notices first; Parr knows this, because she comes to ask her how in God’s name the card had one thing on it one second and something else the next. When Parr explains it, a meeting is called.

“So,” Anna begins, “Jane Seymour.”

Parr nods solemnly. “Jane Seymour.”

“Jane Seymour,” Katherine repeats.

This is all that is said on the matter for some time.

Parr has mixed feelings about this one. Of all of Henry’s queens, it was her who was buried beside him. Not because of how long they’d been together, or because how impact she had on history’s course – Parr can’t shake the feeling she was only held in such high esteem by Henry because she was convenient. She had a son, and died before he tired of her.

“She was apparently very nice,” Katherine mentions, before correcting herself. “People _said_ she was.”

Anna crosses her arms. “Probably just scared. When the woman before you gets her head chopped off for speaking out, you’re probably going to keep your thoughts to yourself. She was rather strait-laced, from what I gathered.”

“She’ll probably want to know what sort of king Edward was.”

“Oh, Edward. I remember his funeral.”

Parr and Howard freeze, wide-eyed.

Anna sighs. “It was a sickness of the lungs. He was 15, when it took him. The boy never got to rule in his own right.”

“Like you?” Howard asks.

“Oh, you mean the breathing? I haven’t been coughing like he did. Of course, I do not know what killed me, so I cannot say.”

The news tugs at Parr’s failing heart. That sweet and intelligent little boy, the one who called her ‘his most dear mother’, gone too soon. She’d hoped he would be able to gain the people’s trust once more after Henry’s reign of tyranny. He was the reason she managed to get married to Thomas in the first place, which, yes, had it’s own issues, but it _was_ exactly what she wanted at the time.

An awful, violent coughing can he heard from upstairs. The women look at each other uneasily.

“I’d say this would kill her, but…” Anna makes a face.

“I don’t think we should just go up there,” Katherine says. “We don’t want to scare her. She’s probably confused enough already.”

Parr nods, sighs. “We’ll wait down here. Then we’ll have to…”

So, they wait. And wait. Parr never manages to finish her sentence, and Jane Seymour does not come down to their little meeting. The coughing seems to indicate that she is moving around upstairs, coming from a slightly different point each time. Then there are the clattering sounds.

Each queen looked at one another, questioning, waiting for someone to make a move. Parr does, eventually, unable to fight her curiosity. The others follow.

“What should we say to her?”

“Maybe something like, ‘Greetings. We are not a threat.’ Establish that first.”

“We don’t know what she’s doing up here.”

“No, we don’t. That’s why we tell her we’re not going to hurt her.”

Parr surveys each door in the hallway as the other two discuss their next move. Nothing there. Nothing there, either.

“Madam Seymour?” she calls out. No answer, so Catherine creeps forward. “Could you come out, please? We would like to spea-”

A lot happens in the next split-second which takes Parr, and everyone else, significantly longer to to break down than it does to occur. First, there’s the sudden force from her left. Then the _pop_ that her shoulder makes. Then the fact she’s falling. Hitting the floor is where Catherine catches up to the rest of the world.

What must be Jane Seymour, pale and terrified, stands above her with a chair in her hands. Actually, is that Catherine’s desk chair? It’s an inanimate object, but it feels like a betrayal nevertheless.

“Stay back!” Jane near-screams. Parr does not stand, afraid that might be seen as an act of aggression, scrambling away. Her injured arm seems to have stopped working, which makes the whole process difficult.

Katherine raises her hands in surrender. “Greetings! We are not a threat!”

“I don’t believe you,” Seymour snarls, but Parr can hear her heart isn’t in it. “I heard you. ‘I’d say this would kill her, but…’ But what?! But you know you’ve already poisoned me?!”

“Poisoned you?” Parr falters, mystified.

“We’re not doing anything to you!” Anna interrupts. “We were just discussing how to give you some bad news!”

“Is that ‘bad news’ that I’m going to die?!”

Anna laughs nervously. “Definitely not.”

“Please put that down,” Katherine implores, out of her depth, “we just want to talk. We know you’re frightened. We’re going to explain as much as we can.”

“Right, explain then. Where am I?” Something changes in Jane’s eyes, going from fear to anger in a blink. “Where is my son? What have you done with him?!”

Anna involuntarily cringes.

“We haven’t done anything to him. He’s not here.”

Jane does not appear to like this answer, and Parr sees her arms tense around her weapon.

In a panic, Anna volunteers, “He’s… at school. Christ’s Hospital School! In Sussex!”

Catherine frowns from the floor – the institution doesn’t sound familiar.

It apparently doesn’t sound familiar to Jane, either. “You’re lying.”

“No, no, that’s where he is. He spends his days in the chapel. That is absolutely true, cross my heart.”

_But Edward died. Anna said so, just now. How can he be in the chapel if he is…_

_O_ _h no_ , Parr thinks to herself.

“Oh no,” Howard says aloud. Jane turns on her, eyes like a cornered animal. “No, wait, _don’t_ -”

Jane swings, and of _course_ she has to hit poor Kat on the side of her head, and of _course_ that head has to come clean off her body again and skid down the hallway like a stone across a pond.

Anna shrieks, a bit of surprise, a dab of frustration, and a twinge of anger. “We _just_ got that back on!”

At least Jane has the decency to look absolutely horrified, and Anna is able to wrest her improvised weapon away.

“Don’t move,” Parr orders her. She turns to Anna. “Get close. If she faints, try and catch her. Katherine, stay where you are. I’m getting your head, alright?”

Howard gives a high-pitched squeak of affirmation from further away, while she gropes blindly for a wall to lean on. Parr stands, arm hanging uselessly at her side.

“That doesn’t look right,” Anna comments.

Catherine is trying very hard not to catch a glimpse. “One problem at a time.”

“She…” Jane stammers incoherently, then, “what…”

“We had hoped to explain this to you in a _calm_ and _friendly_ manner,” Parr explains, gently taking Katherine’s head and returning it to its owner, “but I fear you have taken things out of context, so I will be as clear as possible. You have died. I thought it was of childbed fever, but given your cough, perhaps not. Two years after you passed, King Henry married Anna von Kleve.” She nods to Anna, who has set the chair down behind Jane. “After the marriage was annulled, he married Katherine Howard.”

“Your second cousin,” Howard chimes in, head now literally in her hands. “No prizes for guessing how that ended.”

“Doesn’t that hurt?” Jane asks, voice thin.

“Emotionally, yes.”

Parr continues. “My name is Catherine Parr. I married Henry in 1543, and was with him for four years until he himself died. I then married your brother, Thomas -” Jane blanches, “ _I know_. I followed Henry in 1548, shortly after the birth of my child. We do not know where we currently are geographically or theologically, and we do not know whether the world outside the front door is real. We cannot confirm anything, other than our own identities.”

Jane blinks. She moves over to the bed, as if in a trance, and sits (“Perfectly good chair, here,” Anna mumbles, but Parr shushes her). She coughs again, the force of each one wracking her body, and there is blood when she pulls back her hand. So that’s where the idea of poison came from.

Seymour examines it for a long time, before asking, “Where is Henry?”

“I don’t know. Not here.”

Seymour thinks over this for a while longer.

“My deepest apologies,” she finally says. “I feared the worst. I thought of a plot, or some other foul conspiracy against me.”

“I understand.”

“I need… I think I need some time. Then, I will find out whether or not this is all a dying dream. If it is not, then I will make reparations however I can.”

“Take all the time you need,” Parr says. “We will be here.”

“Don’t recover _too_ quickly, though,” Anna adds. Katherine holds up her head.

And they leave her. Parr is not sure how long Jane sits, staring without seeing. She doesn’t know when the tears start or stop. They check on her, ask her if she needs anything, but the deep silence of grief is the only answer they receive.

Seymour mourns that which she never knew.

-

Parr’s gaze flicks between three things – the book, her sketches, and Jane.

“Hold here,” she orders, pointing at her left forearm. Then to her upper arm. “And here.”

Jane does so, ever-so-gently, just with her fingertips. As if Parr is made of glass.

Seymour had come downstairs this morning to announce that she is Fine Now, with a perfectly blank face and a perfectly practiced courtly posture. None of the others believe her, but if she is ready to make amends, there is one task that stands out – well, actually, _sticks_ out at a strange angle – and that is Parr’s shoulder.

Dr. Gray and Dr. Carter, whoever they may be, have been kind enough to include detailed diagrams in their book on anatomy. Catherine has studied them closely, and formed a hypothesis that Jane is going to help her test. If it fails, what is she going to do, _die_?

Parr uses her hand to adjust Jane’s slim fingers into a grip that might actually do something.

“Alright, now, pull it upward, then in a circular motion. Like this.” Parr rolls her working shoulder.

“I don’t want to hurt you again.”

“You cannot physically hurt me, just surprise me. I don’t mind _most_ surprises.”

With great trepidation, Seymour moves the joint as slowly as she possibly can.

“Harder. Do it quickly.”

Jane gives it a brief, unusually strong push. There is a sharp cracking noise, and Jane immediately lets go in fear.

“That’s good,” Catherine says evenly, “like that.”

“Did it work?”

Catherine tests her shoulder. The movement is slow, but it is moving. “That seems to have done it. Thank you, Madam Seymour. Your debt is paid.”

After a quick nod of understanding, Jane’s eyes fall to Parr’s desk. To her credit, there _is_ a lot to look at. Parr hasn’t latched onto the idea of putting her reading material away, in case she might have to walk three steps to take them off the bookshelf again.

“You’ve been doing a lot of writing. To whom?”

“Oh, to no-one. The English in these books is English, but unfamiliar. I am using my own work, which appears to have been rewritten at some point, to better understand it.”

Jane’s eyes widen. “You wrote a book? When you were…?”

“That’s right. In 1546.”

Shock gradually turns to awe, like an ocean wave washing over the coast. It is gratifying for Parr’s work to be appreciated, though unanticipated from Seymour. Catherine had heard she was rather conservative in her views, and thought that might have extended to the radical idea of women writing manuscripts.

“I was never very good at reading,” Jane murmurs. “What is it about?”

Parr is about to tell her frankly, then freezes. Jane is (or was) Roman Catholic. _Lamentation_ is _very_ Reformist.

She eventually decides on the not-entirely-untrue claim of “Self-reflection, mostly. Um, largely theological.”

“And people read it.”

“Correct.”

The exhale of wonder is interrupted by another coughing fit. The blood that comes from Jane’s mouth is dark, near-black, and glistening. Parr offers a handkerchief to clean the mess, and Jane accepts.

“You say you married my brother.”

There is a bitter taste upon Parr’s tongue. “I remember your reaction. Which part did you object to? How soon it was after Henry’s death, or the fact it was him?”

“I would be a hypocrite if I complained about how quick it was. I am simply curious as to why.”

“…Because I was convinced that he loved me.”

Catherine cannot stand the pity she sees in Jane’s eyes. It is not something she deserves; a woman of her education, tricked by a scheming cur with a pretty face. She should have been better. She should not have believed him so easily.

“I was simply a tool to him,” she says softly. “A way to get power over the throne. I have been in denial for so, so long, but Death, ever-pitiless, has given me a harsh sense of clarity regarding those events.”

“My brother could be very charming when he wanted to be. Do not blame yourself. Do you know what became of him?”

“Anna told me. He was executed for treason about a year after I died.”

“And do you think he deserved it?”

Parr smiles a mirthless smile.

“I should not have said anything,” Jane murmurs. “I have caused you pain twice over. I wish I could have done something…”

“In this matter, Madam Seymour -”

“Jane.”

“- Jane, you are innocent.”

Jane seems to be unconvinced of this. “We will talk of other things, then. What is it that you do with your time, apart from your… translation?”

“That is most of it. I do speak with the others, on occasion. None of us have worked up the nerve to go outside – not because there isn’t anything there, but because there is too much. Katherine and Anna, well, they talk, and do needlework. Katherine assists me, sometimes. And they…”

Jane waits for her to continue.

“… They dance. When they think I am working. Katherine hums a little tune, and Anna finds the rhythm. They are quite good.”

“And are they happy?”

“In that moment? I think so.”

The next time Howard’s tune is heard, Jane is already at the top of the stairs, watching. When she hears Parr, she stands, and offers her hand to Catherine.

Parr takes it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IN THE TOWER OF LONDON LARGE AS LIFE  
> THE GHOST OF ANNE BOLEYN WALKS, THEY DECLARE  
> FOR ANNE BOLEYN WAS ONCE KING HENRY'S WIFE  
> UNTIL HE MADE THE HEADSMAN BOB HER HAIR

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Blood. Wounds that should be fatal.

The first expedition out the front door is conducted by Jane (who feels it is necessary to redeem herself) and Parr (who actually has some semblance of a plan). They learn several things while out and about.

One, the anatomy book Parr brought with her to sell is a first edition, apparently worth four thousand pounds (Parr has never before been grateful to be dead; she would have keeled over otherwise when the book dealer told her). Two, money comes in coloured pieces of paper, now. Three, you can apparently exchange a piece of paper with a signature on it _for_ those coloured pieces, so long as the former paper (a ‘cheque’) is taken to the right place.

After attempting to solve the fourth issue (what do you do with £1000 each?), they encounter a fifth. A very big fifth. Beside monuments of all-glass and red-brick cubes, their strange and alien geometries, the Kent rag-stone of the White Tower rises above the grey walls where Jane and Catherine find themselves.

The Tower of London. Different, but still far too similar.

“I thought…” Jane croaks. “It cannot be here. How is it here?”

“Why are there so many questions I cannot answer?” Parr goes on, “Does this prove we are in reality? On Earth?”

“That can’t be. I still don’t have a heartbeat.”

Parr is brought out of her thoughts for a moment. “Wait, you don’t?”

“We should leave. We have got what we require for the day. We shall go back home, and we _definitely_ won’t tell Katherine of this.”

“That seems reasonable.”

Neither of them move.

God, the people are everywhere. They’re going in the gates, up on the walls. The guards are just letting them in! Whoever is getting executed (if they are, indeed, in a place where death is still possible) would probably be better off at Tyburn, for all the indignity they will suffer.

“Do you see her?” Jane sounds as if she is choking when she speaks. “Up there.”

“See who?”

“ _Her_.”

Parr looks up, following Jane’s gaze. There are many people in that area, but she can see the one Jane is referring to – the one staring down at them in nearly the same amount of shock as they feel.

She knows the fashion the figure is wearing. They know the face. They know the name.

Anne Boleyn.

Then, in a blink, she is gone.

Seymour’s head snaps to Parr. “You said we’d have warning. You said I’d have more time to construct an apology.”

Parr does not answer aloud. She cannot. _She’s not supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be in the house, if anywhere at all. Why does she look the same, when everyone else looks different?_

She gets her answer soon enough, when Anne reappears, making her way through the crowd – that is, _through_ the crowd, phasing through solid bodies as if they were nothing but air until she reaches her two terrified successors. Parr can now see the thin red line around her neck, and the deep shadows under her eyes.

“Jane Seymour! Long time no see! You don’t look yourself, but somehow I know it’s you. Don’t you remember me? You know, _Anne Boleyn_ , your _mistress_ , back before my husband lopped my head off to marry you?”

Jane is chalk-white, frozen in fear. Never before has Catherine seen her look more like a corpse than she does now.

“I’d heard you died,” Anne goes on, ignoring the frosty reception. “I mean, if you hadn't by now, I'm sure people would be asking a lot of questions, and Henry wouldn't have had six wives. Nice to see you’ve got better.”

“She hasn’t,” Parr answers in Seymour’s stead, and steps around Anne to face Jane. When she receives a questioning look from the ghost, she explains, “so it looks like we are talking. So we do not appear mad.”

“Ooh, very clever. What do you mean she hasn’t? She’s… physical. Not walking through walls, worrying about whether or not she looks mad – speaking of, how can you see me, too?”

“Catherine Parr. Sixth wife to your second.”

Anne grins in recognition. “Ah! The survivor! Though the German one lasted longer than you, I’ve heard. Ah, well, doesn’t matter. How come you’re here, too?”

“I don’t know. We aren’t alive, though. None of us need to breathe, or eat, or sleep. Jane doesn’t have a heartbeat, which she did not think to mention until five minutes ago.”

“O- _kay_. So, you’re _not_ a ghost?”

“No.”

“And you never were?”

“I do not… think so. I admit, it confuses me as well. I mean to ask – why are you…?”

“I dunno. One second I was dead, then I sort of… came back to myself. I mean, honestly? By the time my execution date came up, I just wanted it all to be over. To be out of the Tower. What do I get? Bound here for all eternity.” Anne stews for a few silent seconds, before she brightens again. “So, yeah, just been hanging out for the last few centuries.”

“But you were not hanged.”

Anne stares, bemused, before she realises it isn’t a joke. “ _Wow._ You’re really out-of-touch, aren’t you? I mean I’ve been chilling – no, you wouldn’t get that either. I’ve been, er, in this place, walking around. Scaring people. Not being able to chat. You know, ghost stuff.”

“For centuries.”

“Yep.”

“That means we have _also_ been dead for centuries.”

Anne grins a mirthless grin. “And? You have no idea how lucky you are, Parr. People see you. You can act. You can _change things_.” A pause. “There is _so m_ _uch_ cool stuff here, and I can’t touch _any_ of it. Can you imagine how that must be? _Can you_?”

Parr successfully manages to keep from screaming aloud. Of course the dialect in those books is unfamiliar. Language has changed from hundreds of years ago, just as it changed from the eleventh century to the sixteenth.

Though, she gets the impression Anne is deliberately missing something in her lament. If she’s been here since her own death, that means she would have seen…

Jane finally recovers enough to speak. Her voice is still thick with fear, and her emphasis on certain words is off. “My Lady. I did not know how far His Majesty would go. The way Catherine and Mary were treated when you were in favour, I -”

Anne scoffs. “It’s fine, Jane. I’m over it. I've had time. Besides, it was the same thing he did with Catherine of Aragon – except for the whole head-chopping bit, and you didn’t know he’d do that, did you?”

“Of course not -”

“So it’s fine. Breathe, girl.” Jane does, and launches into another churchyard cough. “Or, y’know, don’t.” Anne looks to Parr. “You said you’re dead, why is she coughing?”

“We only know it won’t kill her.”

Anne watches Jane with a sort of half-pity, and pats her former servant on the back – or, at the very least, moves her hand in such a way that she would, if she could. It only serves to dishearten her, it seems.

In a misguided attempt to assuage the pain, Parr tries, “I must ask, the head… does it…?”

“Yeah, it comes off. They wrote a song about it, actually – _with her head, tucked, underneath her arm, she waaaaalks the_ _b_ _loody Tower_ -”

Jane reanimates at this, jerking up to her full height. “Keep it on! I beg of you!”

“She has had bad experiences with Katherine Howard’s head,” Parr explains, but Anne’s confusion only grows. “She is with us. Anna – the German one – was there before I awoke. Then, after me, it was Katherine Howard, then Jane. You died second, so it should be you next. We weren’t expecting you to be here – or anywhere, to be honest, until the little card changed.”

Anne smiles. It’s very gentle, more gentle than Parr would ever suspect from the temptress, the firebrand, the one who broke England from the Vatican.

“Don’t get my hopes up like that,” she warns Parr. “I’ve been waiting for a very long time. Since Henry died. Since Elizabeth died. I’ll probably be here until London falls and the Tower crumbles, and then just keep on going.”

“Then we shall visit you.”

Jane seems to be unsure of this idea, but Anne cocks her head, studying Parr carefully.

“I cannot make any certain claims, but I can offer this much to you. How long has it been since you’ve had someone who could speak with you?”

Anne grins once more. Too long.

“Then, if I am wrong about your return, I shall come here and tell you of all that transpires beyond the Tower, and you shall tell me of all that I have missed since my death. Or, whatever you find most pertinent. I promise you this; I will not willingly leave you alone.”

“Nor I,” Jane says. When the other two face her, surprised, she says, “There is so much I must make up for. This is one way to do that.”

Anne’s eyes shine with an emotion Parr cannot put words to.

“Okay, I kind of forgot how wordy early modern English can be. Like, I know you can use contractions, I heard you do it before.” She swallows. “But that’s more thought than anyone’s given _me_ , not my legacy, for a long time. Thank you.”

“It is the least we can do,” replies Parr. “Shall we start now?”

-

“Do you think Katherine will like her gift?”

“I think so,” answers Parr. “She will certainly find it more pleasing than bandages.”

“I hope it will be enough.”

“I am sure it will be.”

It’s all over. The sun is almost gone over the horizon, they’ve said their goodbyes to Anne, and - after buying a map for future reference – Parr and Seymour’s excursion is coming to an end. A successful trip, yes, but an emotionally harrowing one.

Shadows rise above them. The lights above the streets, once thought as brighter than the sun, don’t appear to illuminate much at all. They are almost alone.

“It’s occurred to me that the area we live in may not be the safest,” Parr remarks.

“Are we in danger?”

“I should think not. If your comment on your heart is true, what danger could we possibly be in from brigands?”

As if on cue, a hooded figure darts from the shadows. They have a knife. It’s quite big, quite practical, and pointing at them.

“Right!” they say. “Give me everything you’ve got!”

Oh, yes, of _course_. Parr raises her eyes to heavens, silently asking if this is punishment for tempting fate. Even her heart cannot be bothered to pick up its pace.

“I will not. Off with you.”

Wrong answer. With one swift movement (which Catherine will later admit to herself took her off-guard), Parr’s bad arm is twisted behind her back, and there is a very thin pressure upon her throat.

The robber speaks to Jane, perhaps more agitated than Parr herself really should be. “Hand over your phone, or your friend dies!”

Seymour meets Parr’s eye, using what little remains of her energy to be concerned. “Do you think you’ll truly die?”

“Do you have a heartbeat?”

“…I see.” Seymour’s attention changes targets. “I fear I cannot help you. I have no idea what a ‘phone’ is, let alone whether or not I own one.”

The knife digs itself into Catherine’s neck. “Don’t act stupid! I’ll do it! I will!”

“What your mother must think of you,” Jane sarcastically laments. “brazenly attacking the queen dowager of England.”

“And Ireland,” Parr adds.

“You will not steal anything from us. We have little for you to take. You have a lot more you could lose than we, should you carry out your crime.”

The robber has an intricate, compelling rebuttal to this – “Shut up!”

And the knife goes into Parr’s throat. She feels the blood pour, the blade slicing to her right, then away. Once the robber releases her, thinking her dead, she turns to face them. Unfallen.

‘Survivor’.

“What a mess you’ve made,” Jane says to the thief, and the two of them advance.

-

“We’re back!” Jane calls shakily as Parr opens the door for her. “Katherine, I’ve bought you a scarf, and _a_ _ll is well_!”

Anna gets up. “You took your time, didn’t you? The card changed again, that m-” She stops when she sees Parr. “Why does this keep happening to you?”

Parr gargles non-committally on her own blood, and hands Anna her thousand pounds.


	5. Chapter 5

Boleyn’s awakening was heralded by an exultant cackling. Clearly, the right way to celebrate your return to the corporeal realm is by rushing down the stairs, touching everything you can get your fingers on, and putting your hands on either side of Catherine Parr’s face.

“Hello,” Anne says, with a manic grin.

Parr does not respond. Even if she could, she doesn’t know what ‘hello’ means.

“Oh, come on. You were really talkative the other day – not that I minded at all. Tell me about how you admired my commitment to Reformist ideas. Or, you know. _Something_. It’s too quiet.”

Parr’s backup, in the form of Anna, comes down the stairs.

“She cannot tell you.”

Anne frowns, lets go of Parr (to Catherine’s relief). “Are you the German?”

“What… I… How do you know that?”

“I hear things. Anyway, Anna von Cleves, what’s up with my girl here?”

Anna visibly struggles to understand this, and throws up her hands in exasperation with the English language. “I had a good idea of how this was going to go, but that is not happening. I regret to inform you that Madam Parr _can_ _no_ _t tell you anything_. That is why I am here.”

“Well, that’s not right. I spoke to her a few days ago. I know she can -”

Parr lets out a warbling, cracking, guttural noise that sounds a _bit_ like ‘ _I wish I could_ ’.

“ _Oh_ _,_ _shit_.”

-

The loose explanation that Anne receives is that, yes, Parr’s throat was slashed, but she’s otherwise fine. Beneath the linen around her neck, there is a thin layer of scar tissue that’s formed over the injury, taut and shining. Since Parr has no talent for talking without breathing, and no-one wants to potentially damage her recovery, it is deemed best that she stays quiet.

Parr honestly finds the whole thing fascinating, though also deeply unsettling – especially the implications. She’s had scrapes and cuts before, naturally (though none as bad as this), and they are supposed to _hurt_. There is _supposed_ to be a burning, a fiery sensation, a message, and there is nothing but questions and the feeling of her skin stitching itself back together.

When Catherine thinks (and that is mostly what she does), she cannot help but wonder if this is it. To live is to die. She has done both, and this is her reward – life without death, without pain, but also without respite. For what purpose? Catherine wants an answer. Needs it, poring over every bit of scripture and thesis she can read in search of it. Nothing. Nothing. _Nothing_!

And yet, despite all of this, she has not gone mad. She simply hasn’t had the time to, given that she’s constantly being checked on or advised to sleep. Why would they ask her to sleep? She doesn’t need it. Why should she shut her brain off for several hours at a time if she doesn’t need it?

…Ah. That might be why she hasn’t lost her mind.

Once Anne is satisfied with the explanation, she can get to the far more important task of going around, explaining what the strange devices in the house actually were. The box with no lid is a ‘computer’, and you use it to look things up. The black window on the wall is a ‘television’, and you watch people on it. Anne doesn’t know how the people they see are in there, though she thinks they are not – its something like a moving portrait. This explains very little, but Anne can go no further. She has only ever seen other people use them, with no opportunity for her to ask why.

Since Anne already knows something of their situation, Anna skips to the next step of the orientation.

-

Katherine and Anne sat on one side of the kitchen table, Parr and Jane on the other. Anna sits at the head. Parr supposes she _is_ the closest thing they have to a neutral party in this whole situation, but that doesn’t mean she has to like it.

“Right. We are going to approach this in a manner befitting of your former positions. We shall not descend into insults or petty fighting, but we shall be honest with one another about of own feelings. We do not want any sort of leftover resentment to fester as an infected wound would.”

Anne takes in Anna’s opening statement, before translating for herself – “You want us to talk things out.”

“I think it would be fair to say you were a controversial figure during your time on Earth, Anne.”

Anne groans. “You’re gonna accuse me of witchcraft, aren’t you?”

“…Why in heaven would I do that?”

“ _Why in heaven_ – no, no insults. It's made up. I wanna make sure that B.S. claim doesn’t get brought up here.”

“We hadn’t even considered it,” Katherine says. Even Jane shakes her head.

“Right. Well. Good. Listen, I know I was a straight bitch when alive – _you_ know, Jane – but every claim made against me in that sham of a trial was made up. Cromwell? Full-on slimy, kiss-arse bastard. So, yeah, _sorry_ that I said Henry couldn’t get it, but I did _not_ deserve to die over it.”

“That is… understandable, but we need to be clear about it. Allow me to demonstrate.”

Anna faces Parr, who returns the look with unenthusiastic acceptance. She knows what is coming.

“Madam Parr, I apologise for saying you weren’t pretty enough to replace me as queen.” There it is. “You were an unknown factor in Henry’s continued tolerance of me, and it felt unjust that the rules were different between women of equal standing. I didn’t expect that ambassador to overhear me,” she adds, quietly.

Parr considers this, then shrugs. She never really defined herself by her looks, anyway.

“So, yes. My apologies for the comment, and my thanks for not completely ruining me. Are we alright now?” Catherine nods – as far as she’s aware, they had been since they woke up. “Good. Now, you two.”

Anne and Jane look to each other with varying levels of discomfort.

“We’ve already gone over this, though,” Anne points out.

“What? Oh, I recall you hinted at something…”

“We would have told you, but Catherine, you know.” Jane makes a slicing motion over her throat. Parr stares at the table – unless she must play peacekeeper, her part in all this is done.

“Yeah. They saw me at the Tower. They were freaking out, obvs, but they got it together enough to say sorry and talk and stuff.”

“I only understood about half the words you said, so maybe go into more detail,” says Howard.

“Uh, okay. Well, er – Jane. When you started opening and closing that locket in front of me, it made me feel… angry. Is that what you want?”

“It was unsubtle on my part,” Jane quietly agrees.

“And, uh, having replaced another queen, I wasn’t ready to _be_ replaced. Or, like, not the feeling that comes with it. But, as I told you, the same thing happened with me and Catherine of Aragon. Henry got tired of her, and so he went after the opposite of her – me. When he got tired of me…” Anne waves her hand. “You know where this is going.”

“I will not pretend I am innocent, or that my actions were in any way kind to you. I did not like the way Catherine and Mary were treated under your queenship. I aimed to rectify that, and to protect the faithful, in my own term in the position. I wasn’t able to do either of those before I died. Henry even threatened me with _your_ fate, should I ‘meddle in his affairs’ again…”

“So, we agree. The problem here was Henry, and wanting the opposite of what he currently had. And also executing a whole lot of people. Like, a _lot_.”

Jane thinks for a moment, then sighs. “I suppose so.”

“Right! Great! So, we’re done now, right? I can go?”

Parr scribbles on a piece of paper. _Until Catherine._ Anne grimaces.

“I simply don’t want past wounds repeatedly reopened,” says Anna. Katherine nods.

“Oh, so, like, ripping off the plaster. Got it.” Anna looks at her, confused. “Eh, ah, it’s a really tiny bandage that sticks to you. For little cuts, and stuff.” Parr points to her throat, questioning. “I _did_ say ‘little’. If you rip it off quick, it doesn’t hurt as much.”

Catherine leans over the table, begging with her eyes for Anne to tell her more.

-

Boleyn can talk for hours. It’s clear that it isn’t something she’s used to, true, but it doesn’t stop her from relishing the fact someone is listening. Every other phrase out of her mouth led to another explanation, and Parr is (figuratively) living for it.

Yea and Nay are out. No-one uses them any more; it’s ‘Yes’ and ‘No’, or ‘Yeah’ and ‘Nah’ depending on how ‘fancy’ you feel. ‘Hello’ or ‘Hi’ are greetings, infinitely more common than ‘Hail’ these days, and ‘‘Tis’ is an immediate giveaway – use ‘it’s’ instead.

Howard has joined the lecture, which seems to please Anne quite a bit. “And what about ‘obvs’?”

“Obviously,” Anne replies. “Evidently.”

“I see. And ‘freaking out’?”

“Eh, getting yourself in a tizzy? Nah, no, that means nothing to you. It means being really upset at something. Honestly? This is all going to change again in a few years anyway. I’d ask a real person, not someone who’s been eavesdropping for four hundred years.”

Katherine meets Parr’s eye, but gets no answer from her gaze. “But you _are_ a real person.”

Boleyn’s face freezes in a smile that does not reach her eyes. “Ah, y-yeah, of course.”

Parr hazards a quick glance at those not participating. Anna is nowhere to be seen, and Jane is obviously only pretending to embroider over on the sofa.

 _Why do you think you are not?_ Parr writes.

“No, no, it’s not that – _I_ _am one-hundred percent the real thing_!” Anne announces. “It’s just that, when people are just constantly talking about you like you’re not here, making stuff up about you like the sixth finger and the weird tooth and the witchcraft, and people talk about this like it’s _fact_ – well, let’s just say it’s not great for your self-esteem.”

Katherine crosses her arms, eyes drifting down. She knows.

Parr knows, too. The book that had started her along her journey to modern literacy ended up being inaccurate. Two big things stood out to Parr as she flipped through, confident in her new ability. Apart from the fact the three latter wives received less attention from the writer as their three predecessors, implications made about Anna and Katherine were, quite simply, wrong.

Anna’s Holbein portrait, while flattering, was not as wholly made up as the book seemed to think, and the assertion that Howard was nothing more than an ‘empty-headed wanton’ ignited a rage in her cold, dead (?) heart. This historian and their claims were spreading false information for the sake of a story, and they thought their subjects unable to defend themselves. They weren’t, through whatever dark force was animating them, but Parr could not help but feel powerless in comparison to words in black and white.

“What I’m saying is, it might be better if you go outside and talk to someone who’s been speaking that way their whole life. They’d know it better than me. Might even know how a television does what it does.”

The door to the study opens, and Anna pokes her head out. “Expedition?”

Jane chooses this moment to reveal she’s been listening. “You’re strangely eager. You weren’t before.”

“Well, now that I know I won’t instantly die upon leaving,” Anna looks pointedly to Parr, “it’s a bit less intimidating. Besides, I know the house isn’t going anywhere. Time for something new.”

Jane frowns worriedly at Catherine, as if asking for permission. Parr shrugs, indicates herself, shakes her head – when that doesn’t adequately get her point across, she writes down a message for Katherine to read out, “ _It is of no consequence to me. I am not going._ ” Parr points to her throat as way of explanation.

“Well, then, it would hardly be right to leave you on your own. I shall stay with you.”

“Yeah,” adds Howard. She thinks for a moment. “How much research have you done, Anna? Do you know where you’re going?”

Anna takes a moment to catch on. To what, Parr does not know. “Perhaps not enough. You’re right. This requires planning, after all. Don’t want it to end in disaster like last time.”

“Well, I’m not going out by _myself_ ,” Anne huffs. She calms quickly, though – the annoyance seems to be feigned. “There’ll be other days, though. That’s something I’ve learned. There will _always_ be another day, whether you want it or not.”

Parr still has no idea what prompted this change of heart, until Jane leads her over to the sofa and Anne attempts to get the television working (“The remote! Where is the remote?”), with Katherine and Anna joining them. She remains bewildered for the rest of the night, long after she deduces this is all to keep her company. Despite her misgivings, an ember of true happiness lights itself within her soul once the conclusion comes to her.

It has been lifetimes since she last felt it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Corpses. Spanish written by a non-speaker.

There is a knock at the door. There hasn’t been one of those before.

Parr, who had been reading on the sofa, is the closest to the front door, and therefore in charge of it. As she gets up, she clears her throat (she has a voice again, though with a husk that wasn’t there before) and prepares herself.

It could be anything. Could be the ‘police’, or the ‘council’, asking if they truly have permission to be living here. Could be the spectre of Death itself, deciding that they are now having too much fun and they all have to go back to being normal-dead.

Thankfully, or not, it is none of those things.

The person at the door is quite young, with short hair. A pair of spectacles rests on their nose, and there is a sheaf of papers under their arm. They seem more surprised than Parr is.

“Erm, hello. I’m looking for a…” they study the papers closely, “Anna von Kleve. Is she here?”

“I… no,” Parr quickly collects herself, “she’s out at the moment. May I ask what this is concerning?”

“Ah, well, we haven’t been able to find a telephone number or an email, and this is listed as her address. I wasn’t expecting an answer, what with the building looking abandoned and everything, but my decision paid off, it seems. I represent the showrunners of _London Beyond the Veil_ , a paranormal documentary reality series covering some of our great city’s overlooked haunted locales. We were hoping to acquire permission to film here.”

“You think this house is… haunted?”

Anne's laughter carries all the way to the front door.

The representative adjusts their spectacles, slightly discouraged. “Well, there is a reason the house was abandoned before Ms. von Kleve came to own it. The building has been thoroughly remodelled throughout the ages, but its most prominent inhabitants perished in the Great Plague. No matter what is done to the building, some residents of the property have been documented to die of fright, whether that be a heart attack or throwing oneself out the window. May I ask, have you or any of your _cohabitants_ encountered anything, ah, unusual during your stay here?”

“I can’t say we have.” _Yes, absolutely, but it will probably cause more trouble than it’s worth to tell you. So, I_ _ca_ _n’t._

“Well, our presenters hope to confirm that once and for all – with the owner’s permission, of course. Of course. Do you know when she will be back?”

“No, but I’ll let her know as soon as she returns. Can I have a name, please?”

The representative hands her a little card with a name and some numbers on it (she will have to ask Anne about it later), and the pile of papers. “For her to sign.”

“Thank you. I will get back to you.” _I have no intention of getting back to you._

The representative bids her farewell. Anne is leaning on the nearby wall when Parr closes the door.

“Who are the papers for?” Anne asks.

“You didn’t hear all that?”

“Only the bit about the haunting. Then I was trying too hard to be quiet to pay attention.”

Parr sighs. “They’re for Anna. Quick question, which plague was the Great Plague?”

“Uh, that would be sixteen hundred and something. I was going through some stuff in the seventeenth century, but I remember there was a plague, a fire, and they got rid of the monarchy for a bit.”

“They… what?” Parr blinks a few times, trying to process this new information. They got rid of it? She knows of the confusion surrounding the Wars of the Roses, of course, but there was always a claimant to take the crown. How is it that the country thought the best move was to decapitate the body politic?

“Yeah. It was a nice change of pace, I thought. The king getting _his_ head chopped off. Wish hearing the news felt better than it did.”

They _literally_ decapitated the body politic?!

“I don’t get it, either,” Anne goes on, unaware of or deliberately ignoring Parr’s bewilderment, “but what are you going to tell Anna when she gets back?”

“Ultimately, not my decision, but I’m advising against it. We’ll attract all the wrong sort of attention, if this goes ahead.”

Anne hums in assent. “I wanna be able to leave the house without getting mobbed. I’ve had enough ghost tours about the place, thank you very much.”

“They won’t be talking about you, though.”

“That’s arguably worse. Anyway, your turn for the vigil.”

As more names are checked off the list, it becomes increasingly easier to pick out which bedroom a person will appear in. Since there is only one empty room remaining, everyone had been taking turns to guard it and ensure there are no further incidents. Jane, who usually takes that duty, is out with Anna and Katherine, so that leaves an extremely reluctant Anne to stand around for ten minutes, get bored, and ask Parr to take over.

Parr hands her the forms, and the card. “You’re probably more qualified to explain all this to Anna, anyway.”

-

_It is dark. There is nothing. No sound. No sight. Just her and her thoughts. Alone._

_Where is she? Where is everyone? She can’t move. Panic sets in._

_Then, movement, from above. A scraping noise. Light, blinding. A silhouette._

“ _Ah, dear sweet Catherine. Your Majesty.”_

 _She doesn’t know this man. His fashion is strange, his voice and countenance subtly but undeniably_ wrong. _Who is he? A jailer? When was she taken?_

“ _You are in good condition, for a woman your age,” He says, so only she can hear. “May I?”_

No. _But she cannot move, cannot speak. He takes her hand – it is colourless, lifeless, a dead thing – and kisses it gently. He fiddles with something out of sight. He reveals a blade._

“ _A memento of the occasion.”_

 _She can’t move, can’t scream, can’t do_ anything _as he brings it behind her ear, comes back with a few locks of hair, tucks them away on his person._ No. That’s mine. Don’t take anything more from me.

“ _I’m afraid that you will not be seen for some time, your majesty, or at the very least I hope you’re not. Pray, rest easy for a while.”_

 _More scraping fills her ears. Everything begins to go black once more –_ as the lid is pulled over the casket _, she realises as the last of the light is cut off. No. She’s still here. He can’t do this to her, let her_ out _-_

Catherine wakes with a start. She is not in a coffin, she’s on her chair in the final empty bedroom. It's alright. There’s sunlight (?) through the windows, there’s a door and a rug and a bed and a corpse covered by a sheet.

It doesn’t move. Not at all. It’s the absolute last thing Parr needs to see right now.

Parr screws her eyes shut, takes a deep breath – the sensation grants her no relief. _Now, there’s no need to panic,_ she tells herself. _You’re simply a bit disorient_ _at_ _ed._ _You have to be calm, for your god-mother’s sake. She is not moving because she’s asleep, that’s all. She shall be so happy when you tell her she doesn’t need to be locked up any more. Be happy for her!_

A bloodless, cadaverous hand shoots out from under the sheet, desperately grasping at the empty air. Parr immediately gets up and grabs the chair she was sitting on in self-defence. When the arm finds purchase on the metal chair leg, it freezes in place.

There is a voice from under the sheet; it is calm, unnaturally so, but has an undertone of fear constantly threatening to breach the surface.

“¿María? No puedo verte. No me dejes solo. ¿Dónde estás?”

( _Maria? I cannot see you. Do not leave me alone. Where are you?_ )

Oh, _no_. Grounds for compassion.

After a moment’s hesitation, Parr replaces the chair with her own hand and squeezes tightly. Catalina is bitterly cold.

“¿María?” the voice is hopeful.

“She is not here, god-mother.”

There is a long, painful silence from de Aragon. Then, in English, “Where am I?”

“Not in Kimbolton Castle.”

“Am I dead?”

“That depends on what measure you use to define someone as ‘dead’.”

de Aragon sits up slowly, the sheet falling from her face. It matches her arm; sunken eyes, ashen skin, grey lips. The latter are pursed in mild annoyance.

 _If you cannot be happy, b_ _e calm_.

“I think you are evading my questions,” she says.

“If I had the answers – and I fear I never will – I would tell you, god-mother. You have died, true, as has everyone else in this building, but we are not sure if moving, feeling people still _count_ as deceased.”

There is a soft knock at the door. Jane stands in the doorway, only flinching a little bit when she sees de Aragon. “Just letting you know we’re back,” she says to Parr. “Can I help?”

“Who is ‘we’? What other poor souls are with us?”

Parr bites her lip, before replying, “Your successors as queen consort to King Henry.”

“Successors. Multiple.” Parr nods. “You, as well?” Another nod. “Good God, why?”

“Because he wanted to marry me, and refusing him usually ends with a blade against your neck.”

“And you, Jane? I assume you as well.”

“Anne did not give him a male heir, among other reasons. I did not survive long enough for him to tire of me.”

“What happened to Boleyn, then?”

“She…” Jane looks away. “Her marriage was annulled as well, some months after you died. She was arrested on charges of adultery and high treason, charges she denies even now.”

de Aragon’s voice is suddenly devoid of all emotion. “And the punishment for treason is death.”

Jane does not answer (she does not need to), and the silence weighs heavily upon Catalina; her shoulders slump, she hangs her head, and her hand falls from Parr’s grip.

“Todo ese problema por nada,” she mumbles to herself.

( _All that trouble, for nothing._ )

“Could you take over, Jane? I have some questions for Anne.” Jane nods, filling Parr’s place beside de Aragon’s bed. She does not touch the chair.

Just as she leaves, she can hear de Aragon ask, “What happened to Mary? Was she queen? Was she happy?”

Poor Jane.

-

“Anne?”

The subject of the search is sitting at the table, playing cards with Anna and Katherine (clearly bought on their little trip out). Her head is resting on the marble surface, detached from the rest of her, but it turns to the best of its ability when she hears her name.

“Yeah?”

“…Okay, first off, what possesses you to do that?”

“Self-affirmation,” Anne answers easily. “What stopped me before won’t stop me now.”

Anna knocks on the table. “Vada.”

Anne and Anna show their cards to one another. From the smirk, it seems Anna won that hand.

“Alright. Second question. Did you… do anything to Catherine of Aragon?”

This earns the pair of them some curious looks from Katherine and Anna. Anne rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, the Cat came back, don’t worry about it. I put the sheet over her when I went to check on you, that’s all. I don’t know why she looks like that.”

“Looks like what?” Howard asks, hesitant.

“Like, dead. _Proper_ dead. All grey and vein-y – ugh, gives me shivers just thinking about it,” says the severed head. “Jane’s not back, so does that mean she’s awake?”

“Yes,” Parr replies.

“And still looking a bit, ah, like that?”

“Also yes.”

Anna, for whatever reason, does not seem surprised at all by this information. In fact, with the twitch of her lips and the glint in her eyes, Parr might even say she’s _happy_ to hear it.

“What is it that she died from?” she questions.

Katherine almost manages to say a word beginning with ‘p’, but Anne interjects. “Cancer. She died of cancer.”

“Ah.” Pause. “Perhaps that’s what I died of, as well.”

Howard blinks, freezes in surprise. “How’d you figure _that_ out?”

“Anne? When you woke up, was your head attached to your body?”

“Nope.”

“And you and Katherine… died in a similar manner, so the way you woke up was the also similar. If what I’m gathering is correct, it must mean Catherine of Aragon and I had the same cause of death.”

“Because you went through the same thing?” Anne realises.

“It was just _wonderful_ for my self-esteem. Waking up, completely alone in a strange house, in a corpse that doesn’t belong to you. Can you imagine?”

“Is that why you didn’t check your pulse when I asked? Because you _knew_ , and you were scared to face it again?”

“Bold of you to assume I was scared,” Anna replies airily. “It _does_ mean that the Lady of Aragon’s state is not permanent, though.”

There’s a cough from above them. Jane must have forgotten not to breathe again.

“Be prepared,” Parr warns them. The other three think on this for a moment.

“One more hand,” Anne suggests. “It’ll help me prepare.”

Anna shrugs, and shuffles the deck. “Digging your own grave there, hun.”

Katherine is dealt in, but Parr spots her send Anna a worried glance as Parr disappears back upstairs.

Seymour and de Aragon are too busy admiring the woodcut to notice Parr, initially. Catalina appears to be doing her best to stay upright, leaning quite heavily on her former servant.

“Which one is meant to be me?” de Aragon asks. Jane points to the woman with the axe. “Hm. Good.”

At the sound of footsteps, she turns to Parr; her god-daughter observes that her movements are stiff and slow, reminding Catherine of her shoulder after it was re-located. Perhaps everything is working itself back into place.

“Ah, god-daughter. You have returned.”

“I have,” Parr says evenly, “I’ve got my answers. Now, a question for you. How do you feel about seeing Anne Boleyn? We needn’t have you talk today, if you’d prefer to wait until later.”

de Aragon ruminates on this for quite some time, worrying her lip, before announcing, “So long as there is no needless hostility, I can tolerate her.”

“Good to hear. Now, I’m assuming you want the head _on_?”

de Aragon stares.

“It is simply another part of her,” Jane explains. “Anne Boleyn is quite knowledgeable, she forgets that people can hear her on occasion, and sometimes her head comes off.”

“ _Her head comes off_ ,” de Aragon echoes, aghast. Jane is the only thing keeping her on her feet at present. Parr moves to help, taking Catalina’s arm and placing it over her own shoulders.

“It’s not something you have to face today, not if you don’t want to,” she reassures her namesake. “It is all very strange, I understand.”

de Aragon shakes her head. “Yet you seem numb to it, and I suppose _I_ will be, in time, but… Jane tells me they are playing cards. Is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“I shall do that, then, even though Boleyn will probably outplay me again.” Catalina swallows down the venom in her tone. “I fear I will not be able to confront our shared past as you wish I would, not yet.”

“That is fine. You have time.”

“I do. Today, I shall enjoy the first company I have had in far too long. Please, lead on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Parr’s nightmare is reference to when her tomb was opened in 1782 by John Locust. He reported that the body was in good condition for its age, that the flesh on one arm was ‘white and moist’, and that he took a few locks of her hair before sealing her up again.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Reference to Sexual Harassment, Abuse. Mention of Blood.

This place may have been redecorated centuries after their deaths, but it doesn’t keep the public house from feeling dated to them.

The table Parr is drumming her fingers on is sticky with years of filth, the leather on the chairs cracked and peeling. If she looks closely, she can see small fragments of glass beneath the bar.

There’s a crowd, surprisingly, with most people’s eyes are fixed on the football game silently playing out on the television, underscoring every action with cheers or language even sailors would find obscene. Only a few observers bother to glance over at the ‘royal booth’, and even then it is with uncertainty and suspicion.

Anna sets the bottle on the table, and she and Anne hand out glasses.

“This was apparently their best wine,” she relays. “The bartender says she’s not used to people asking for the ‘best’. Only what gets them drunk as fast as possible.”

“There is something to be said for both,” remarks de Aragon.

Since her complexion has progressed from ‘obviously dead’ to ‘seriously ill’, they’d decided to celebrate her return to the world of the living by re-introducing her to it. Thankfully, they all know what a public house is meant to look like, and the woman tending the bar does not care enough to check for identification – something they really should be doing, according to Anne.

Boleyn is the one who pours for everyone, clinks her own glass against Catalina’s, waggling her eyebrows. Parr doesn’t know what she’s getting at. She’s too busy staring intently at her own glass, before taking a minuscule sip.

It’s… okay. Not great, but tolerable. Good enough.

“You look like you’re being poisoned there, Parr,” quips Anne. “Is it really that bad?”

Anna shrugs. “What do you expect? None of us have had a drink in years. She’s getting used to the taste again, probably.”

“It’s not that,” Parr mumbles. “I’m checking whether or not I can still drink it.”

“And?”

“Everything seems fine so far. I wasn’t sure how it was going to work, given… you know.”

They all know. But, Parr has proven it safe to consume, so they do, with varying levels of enthusiasm.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” de Aragon intones, swirling her drink around the cloudy glass. “I _was_ expecting a rebirth of some description, but it was far from whatever this is, and no-one can answer my questions as to _why_. Why now? Why like this? What is it I have done, _we_ have done, to deserve it?”

Anne rolls her eyes. “I keep telling you, this is a second chance! No reputation to live up to, nothing to tie you down to your old life! Enjoy yourself for once, girl!”

Catalina stares into her wine. Parr wonders if she sees Mary, in all that red.

Howard changes the subject. “Did you find out anything else about that ‘Beyond the Veil’ thing?”

“The bartender told me it is a ‘ghost hunting web series’, which are all words I understand separately, but not together.”

“Ugh, ghost hunting,” says Anne, with a grimace. “They come into your space, with all their little light-up boxes and yell at you to ‘ _show them a sign_ ’, but they’ve already decided what they want from you and what you _actually_ do makes no difference to them.” She downs the rest of her wine, and pours herself another glass. “You told them ‘no’, right, Anna?”

“I think I did. Parr checked over the computer-letter I wrote.”

“E-mail.”

“Yes, that. I think we might need more wine, hold on.”

Jane starts up a quiet conversation with Catalina, and the cousins seem to start up some people-watching, Boleyn whispering things that cause Howard to giggle.

Parr smiles into her glass. A good start to the evening, all things considered. She knows Catalina to be set in her ways; while she takes change with dignity, she does not necessarily accept it. A place where she can just observe, and the more adventurous housemates can meet new people, was a very good idea on her part.

At least, she thought so. It was good on paper.

“Helloooo. You there, Kat?”

Anne is waving a hand in front of her companions’ face. There is a very odd look on it – Parr has seen sadness and cynicism play across those features. This is a mixture of those, and something else. Perhaps anger.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, only physically present, “there’s a girl.” She stands suddenly, and disappears into the crowd without further explanation.

“Katherine!” Parr calls out after her, but there’s no reply beyond the cacophony of the crowd.

There’s a thud as von Kleve sets down another bottle of wine. “What’s going on?”

“Howard ran off. Something about a girl,” Anne answers.

“That doesn’t give me anything to go on. What girl? Has she done something?”

There’s a shriek, and Parr is on her feet before she can really process anything.

The football spectators are too enthralled to notice her, or to get out of her way, Parr laments as she weaves and dodges through the mass of bodies. Sweaty, claustrophobic, unpleasantly warm. She hates it.

She hears some mild expressions of surprise from up ahead, and a flash of Howard’s face is the only other warning she gets – Catherine moves to the side, bumping into a burly fellow who grumbles at her, then goes back to his game, which seems to be reaching its thrilling conclusion.

The next person who tries to pass, she does _not_ let through.

A man, quite young. Messy dark hair, the beginnings of a beard, and hard eyes. He rams into her, but a pair of hands on Parr’s shoulders keep her standing firm. Anna has followed her into the fray.

As he tries to find a way past (von Kleve stands to one side, blocking his escape), Parr speaks, clear and firm. “Is there a problem, sir?”

“You blind?” He tries another direction, but Jane has appeared from nowhere, cutting him off. “Let me through.”

“What’s your hurry?” Anna inquires.

“Well, some bitch had the nerve to snap at me for nothing and run off with my date.” After another failed attempt, he laughs in frustration, cold and cutting, and looks Parr dead in the eye. “And I’d say you’re working with her, aren’t you?! Move!”

 _I_ _t can’t be nothing_ , Parr thinks to herself. _If it was nothing, Howard would not have reacted in that way._

Every muscle in her body is stiff, straining with the effort of keeping her still and her face impassive. There are far more eyes upon them, now. The man Parr bumped into watches the confrontation with a raised brow and a slight smile. The attention makes Catherine’s skin crawl.

A voice from behind her, sharp and commanding. Catalina. “What makes you think you have the right to speak to her in that way?”

He goggles at her. “Christ, is that a zombie or something?!”

“ _Excuse me_?” Whatever ‘zombie’ means, Jane is choosing to take it as an insult.

“The girl is gone,” de Aragon growls. “Stand down.”

“Gone?”

“Gone. She told me that you hurt her. You held on, and wouldn’t let go. You frightened her. And so, she is gone, and there is nothing more you can do to her.”

He shakes his head, disbelieving. “You’re joking. She wanted it, it was obvious.”

Oh, he loses the crowd with that line, if the sounds of distaste are any indicator. Hanging onto restraint by a quickly fraying thread, she risks a look to her left. It seems she and Anna are of one mind; von Kleve’s face is a mask of unrestrained fury.

Perhaps fortunately, the man loses himself before she does. In desperation, anger and perhaps a little fear, he yells "Out of the way!", lashes out -

And _misses_ Parr.

It’s a nice change, honestly.

Apart from that, she isn’t entirely sure what happens, because it occurs all at once. The other patrons are on the man like a ship-tossing wave, Jane has to physically pick up Anna and carry her out of the fray, and Catalina pulls her god-daughter away from the mass of dangerously flailing limbs and out the side door.

The cold night air sets Parr’s mind into motion once more, clearing the haze of anger from earlier. Words had failed her, with that man. His supposed actions (and she has little reason to doubt her god-mother’s statement), his abdication of responsibility for them. She wanted it? What rubbish. Words put into that girl’s mouth, no doubt.

_Why, sweetheart! I would you no hurt!_

“No, my lord, I think so,” she mumbles under her breath.

As she heaves a heavy sigh, two more shapes burst out the side door. Jane and Anna. von Kleve has her bottle of wine gripped tightly.

“If I can’t get satisfaction, I’m getting my money’s worth,” she says resolutely.

“Where are the other two?” Jane asks, exhausted from her struggle.

“They helped the girl get out,” Catalina explains. “Boleyn said something about a cab – I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s a hired car.”

Boleyn pokes her head around the corner, into the alleyway where her compatriots are recovering.

“Well? Get moving. Don’t want to get in trouble, now do we?”

They try to walk down the road, away from the action spilling out into the street, as casually as they can. Howard is unsteady on her feet, and leans on her cousin for support. Once the riot mixes with the other sounds of modern London, Anne speaks again.

“I’d say it wasn’t a complete failure.”

“You cannot be serious,” de Aragon deadpans.

“Oh, but I am. There was a fight, yeah… but, y’know, we got wine, a girl got free of her arsehole date, Parr wasn’t murdered…”

Catalina’s head snaps to face her god-daughter, who can only mutter, “It was _one time_ …”

Jane turns to Howard. “Why didn’t you tell us what you were doing?”

“Not to say that we don’t agree with your actions,” Anna adds.

Katherine gets that look on her face again, and she swallows. “I wasn’t… really there, if that makes sense. It made me remember something that happened to me, back before. It was like… like I was watching myself from another angle, another time,” her voice is suddenly sharp, cold, a blade’s edge, “ _and I wasn’t going to let it happen again._ ”

de Aragon meets Parr’s eyes. Parr makes a non-committal gesture with her head.

There is nothing to say. It’s not Parr’s trauma to impart.

Anna is right – at least, in her case. Howard had told her fellow Catherine of what led to her death, in bits and pieces. After Anne’s talk of her factually incorrect legacy, all the ways she’s been misrepresented and lied about, Katherine felt the need to get her story out to someone, anyone. Parr happened to be the one who was awake at the time.

She never wanted to catch Henry’s eye. Nor had she meant to come to the attention of Culpeper, nor Dereham, nor anyone else. Her position at court was simply a way to gain back lost favour since the death of her cousin, and the House of Howard got all they wanted and more. They used her. They _all_ used her. Just in different ways.

Katherine finishes Parr’s thought for her.

“I can do something about it, now.” She smiles, grimly, for nobody but herself. “No-one can take that from me. I won’t let them.”

-

The six of them walk back to the house… Well, that’s not entirely true. They wander around for a bit before Parr pulls the map from her pocket and realises they’re going the wrong way. _Then_ they walk back to the house.

They do get to sight-see a little, marvel at the glittering lights that take the place of the stars. There is laughter. Joking. Talk of the future, even if it only pertained to further outings.

Anne was right. It wasn’t a failed evening out.

Once the door clicks open and Anna puts her trophy on the table, Parr feels a hand on her arm.

de Aragon.

“Could you assist me with something?”

Parr nods, unsure. Her god-mother leads her up the stairs, to her room, and shuts the door.

This does not bode well.

“What did she mean? Boleyn. She said that you were murdered.”

Oh, good. A question she can answer. “I wasn’t, not really. There was a robber, they had a knife up against my throat, and they, ah, used it. But I didn’t actually die.”

“Because you were already dead.” _Not_ a question. “Did you remain dignified?”

“I like to think so. I will not deny it was a… strange sensation.”

 _The knife was cold. She felt the blood – black, tar-like – oozing down into her throat,_ _drowning her_ _._ In the present, Parr reaches up to the scar, wrapping her hand around her neck.

“God-daughter?”

“It was not something I would like to repeat, but it did not hurt,” Parr assures the worried woman. “I suppose pain does not follow you, after death.”

Catalina nods, just slightly, in acknowledgement. Just as Parr opens her mouth to ask if she’s free to go, she says, “Boleyn was right, then.”

Parr blinks. “Sorry?”

“Do not panic. She is not _completely_ right. This _is_ a second chance,” de Aragon clarifies, and begins to pace. “The Howard girl said that what happened to her would not happen again, because she will prevent it. Jane talks of making reparations for her past actions. This state is not unlike an afterlife – waking up in a place familiar, but unfamiliar, the afflictions that caused our deaths no longer causing us pain. But, we are not quite separate from the living, and we can affect things. We can make things better.”

She stops, and fixes her gaze on Parr.

“I cannot comfort my daughter, cannot educate her on how to deal with a husband who does not love her. But, I can do the same for others, and while it will not fill the hole in my heart, it may ease the hurt. Thank you, god-daughter.”

Parr says nothing, just nods and takes her leave. Goes to her room. Sits down on her bed, facing the window, and watches constellations she does not recognise.

She does not sleep. She thinks only of all the things she hopes to do differently.


	8. Chapter 8

“Did you know you pray in your sleep?”

These are the first words Parr hears when she wakes. A figure looms over her, and her barely-awake brain tells her it is a threat. She shoots up in a panic, trying to think what she could do, what does this thing want, how does she fight it -

\- It’s Boleyn. Of course it's Boleyn. Her back is against the bed’s headboard, she’s twiddling her thumbs, and seems oblivious to the fact Parr was about to punch her.

“My bedroom doesn’t have a window,” is her explanation. “I wanted to see the sky. Weird, isn’t it? I’m thinking of making star charts to pass the time.”

“Okay, well, there’s a perfectly good chair over there.”

“Bed’s comfier. Oh, wait, you don’t mind, do you?”

Parr thinks it over for moment. After the initial shock… “No, not really.”

“Good. Sorry, still getting used to boundaries again. In my defence, though, I heard you talking to yourself, so I thought you’d be awake.”

“What was I saying?”

Anne looks to the ceiling, her mouth twisting in thought. “… _All mine hope and whole affiance, most pitiful Lord, I have cast on Thee. Let me be no more, I pray Thee, shake off, for that were sore to my rebuke and shame among my enemies. Deliver and succour me of Thy_ _justice_ … and you stopped there, and started from the top.”

“Oh. I wrote that in my prayer book.”

“You just kept repeating it, over and over. What comes next?”

“Don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I died before I could finish it. Whatever I had planned is…” she gestures to her head, “gone.”

Anne regards her for an uncomfortably long time, as if she’s trying to solve an equation written on Parr’s face.

“Leave it behind,” she says eventually, turning her face back to the window. “The past is the past, and there are some bits should _stay_ there.”

Parr bites her lip, but nods.

“You’ve heard my god-mother’s reasoning for our return by now, I’m sure,” she says quietly.

Anne scoffs. “I think your god-mother _needs_ a reason.”

“Regardless. What is it you plan to do? Anything?”

“Well, the novelty of having a body hasn’t worn off yet – especially one like _this_.”

“…Right, I understand where you’re coming from, but saying it like _that_ , with _that_ face, makes it far more ominous than it should be.”

“Dunno what you mean.” The ghoulish grin fades. “I’m honestly not sure. I think… maybe just enjoy it. Try out all the things they’ve made since I died, and do it again when they invent something new. You?”

Parr would like nothing more than to enjoy ‘life’. The things she _wants_ to do are simple; learn more about history from where Anna’s recollections left off (though she fears how those stories will end), understand all the discoveries and advancements that have been made over the years since her death (though she fears the world has changed too much for her to keep up), to let go of her regrets and her anger (but she fears she will let go of herself in the process).

Every single thing that comes to mind is almost immediately second-guessed, just as it was when Catalina first told her about her theory. She’d only made it as far as she did by keeping her head down; from the rages of her first father-in-law, being held hostage in Snape Castle, to coming so very close to death with Henry. She’d survived by being clever enough to make herself seem weaker, less capable than she really was, and the instinct she no longer needs has come with her over the threshold.

“No idea.”

“That’s a lie,” Anne tells her, without judgement.

“Not completely.”

Boleyn opens her mouth to say something further, but stops.

“You hear that?”

Parr frowns. She doesn’t think she’s seen Anne frightened before, but this might be it – she’s frozen, eyes wide and fixed on one point, lips slightly parted. Sufficiently intrigued, Parr holds her breath to better listen to…

_Panting. Ragged gasps. Cracking, splintering sickening crunching getting closer and closer to Catherine’s room, to the two of them._

Unconsciously, Parr pulls the covers up to her chin. Boleyn joins her, and they wait in perfect silence as the infernal noise nears Parr’s partially open door -

There is a click as a _different_ door is opened, a grunt of effort, and one more click. Quiet.

They wait for a scream. Nothing. Catherine and Anne turn to each other. Anne giggles, nervously.

“Not a demon,” she says.

“No,” Parr replies. Probably not, anyway. “Someone who’s injured.”

-

“Morning, Kat.”

“Morning, Nan.” She frowns, closing her book – _Frankenstein_ – to properly examine Anne’s tense jaw and wide eyes. “Something wrong?”

“No, no, not at all. No grand plans today, just a _nice relaxing morning_. Oh, yeah, how are your bones?”

Howard stares. “They’re… in my body, where they should be?”

“Not… broken?”

“Not that I know of – why are you asking about my bones? Is there something wrong with them? Or yours’? ‘Cause these ones are mine, and I’m keeping them.”

“No, nothing like that. All I know is that there is _something_ wrong with _someone’s_ bones, and I’m trying to figure out who they belong to.”

“And you couldn’t think of a better way to ask?”

“Faffing about will make it worse.”

Katherine sighs. “I’ve seen Cathy Parr about, so it’s probably not her. Jane and Catherine de Aragon, I haven’t seen, and Anna isn’t in her room.”

“Where, then?”

“I don’t know. Look, Nan, I love you dearly, but you can’t just go for the metaphorical throat like that. If you need me, I’ll be here, concerned about the state of my skeleton.”

Whoops.

-

Catalina is perfectly still when Parr pokes her head into the bedroom. She is a statue, kneeling beside her bed, hands clasped, eyes closed. The only sign of life is the slight movements of her lips as she prays.

Parr stays quiet throughout. When she hears a sharp inhale of surprise and sees her godmother’s startled expression, she speaks.

“What were you praying for? Um, if it’s not too personal.”

“Guidance.” Catalina stands, and there is no horrid crunching noise. Not her, then. “To whichever saint is listening.”

“Ah. Right.” Parr doesn’t think any of them are.

“I think I will get my answer soon, one way or another,” de Aragon hums. “Anna has been assisting me with the device. I have several charitable institutions I plan to give my time to.”

And by ‘device’ she must mean the computer. Well, that’s good, Parr supposes. Her godmother can go back to doing what she really wants to, instead of wasting away in a castle.

“Just remember to take some time for yourself,” she says. “Don’t get yourself burnt out on helping people.”

“It’s kind of you to worry about me, god-daughter. However, I am well aware that I cannot help everyone, and that there are those who cannot be helped even if I _can_ get to them.”

Oh?

“What exactly do you mean by that?” Parr asks, slowly and carefully. _Please let it not be Protestants that she’s referring to, with that latter line. Or any differing faith, really._

Her godmother tilts her head, just slightly. “I mean people who are too proud or too set in their ways to accept charity or kindness. Who did you think…” There is a flash of understanding in her eyes. “Oh, are you thinking of Boleyn?”

Parr says nothing.

“I believe she is a very different person to the one she once was. She has apologised – in her own way, and so I did not know it was an apology until she told me – for her treatment towards Mary and myself. I am referring to people like my former husband, who place responsibility for their own shortcomings on others, who refuse to look inside themselves and make changes. As I understand, he did that quite a bit.”

It’s a subtle difference, but de Aragon stands a bit straighter at that, her countenance blank and controlled. Parr wonders, sometimes, if she blames herself for what happened after her death, given her reluctance to speak of it. Perhaps it’s the mere mention of the man who, after over twenty years of obedience and loyalty on his wife’s part, rewarded her faithfulness by trying to make sure she died alone.

“Just making sure everything’s alright,” Parr mumbles.

“Well, I thank you for your concern. If something is amiss, I shall tell you.” A slight pause. “God-daughter?”

“Hm?”

“You are permitted to make noise when you walk around. _Please_ make more noise.”

-

“Gotcha!”

Anna jumps at the sound of the study door bursting open, and hunches over the computer. Anne strides forward, victorious smirk on her face, but this drops as soon as she sees the screen.

“Looking yourself up, are you? Didn’t think you were that sort.”

Anna blinks. It’s genuine confusion, which throws Boleyn off. “What?”

“Look.” Anne points to the screen, the image of the Holbein portrait amongst the other news articles.

_Tudor Queen's Tomb Found Empty._

von Kleve clicks on the article,  curiosity piqued . The title really says it all  – the tomb of Anne of Cleves, in Westminster Abbey, is empty. When did this happen?  Why? Why is there no record of the exhuming, as was the case with every other ruler  there  that was dug up? The article manages to answer none of these questions, while still using a surprising amount of words.

“How did you not notice your picture, like, right there?” Anne questions. “I thought that was your _thing_.”

“It is not my _thing_. My _thing_ is making a fat old man realise he wasn’t the catch he used to be.” von Kleve huffs. “I’ll be honest, I just opened another tab because I thought Kat was with you.”

Boleyn narrows her eyes. “You hiding something from her?”

“Nothing bad. I want it to be a surprise. It’s just when I search ‘virginals for sale’, I’m not getting any musical instruments.”

Anne grins, only just barely holding back a howl of laughter. “Have you tried typing in ‘keyboards’?”

“I thought you used those to type.”

“Same phrase for different things, ma chère. It’s still a board with keys on it. Here.”

As soon as Boleyn hits ‘Enter’, von Kleve groans at how easy it all is when you know the right words.

“How many times must I learn English for you people to be satisfied?” she grumbles.

“Every generation, unfortunately,” Anne commiserates. Then, furrows her brow in puzzlement. “Wait, why are you getting her a keyboard?”

“Because I know music and composition is something she’s good at. Before you ask, I _have_ been dropping hints, asking questions, gauging if it’s something she actually wants. Remember that street performer? The one with the ‘keyboard’?”

“Oh, the one she stared at for half an hour? The one she tipped a hundred pounds?”

“She said they were amazing. That she wants to do something like that. And she can, I _know_ she can, she just needs the right tools. I owe that much to her.”

Anne’s expression softens. “You don’t owe her anything more than you do to any of us. You weren’t involved in _that decision_ at all. If you want to make it up to her – and frankly, the _world_ should want to make it up to her – then keep doing what you’re doing.”

von Kleve ponders for a moment, then nods. “Thanks, Boleyn.”

“No problem. By the way, are your legs broken?”

“…What?”

“Never mind.”

-

Jane watches dispassionately as Parr creaks open the bedroom door. She’s lying in bed. Not asleep, nor is she doing needlework. Her hands are folded on top of the covers, looking for all the world like she’s on her deathbed again.

“Who am I, Cath?” she murmurs.

Is that a trick question? It must be. If it isn’t, then Parr has walked into more problems than she can deal with alone.

“…Jane Seymour?”

Jane closes her eyes, with a sigh. “I know that. Who _is_ Jane Seymour, though?”

Parr thinks she might be getting stuck in some circular reasoning, here. She shuts Jane’s bedroom door – click – moves to the bedside, crouches down and offers Jane a hand. Jane takes it.

“Talk to me,” Parr implores.

“Anne says history sees me as the ‘good wife’ of Henry. The pure one. The _innocent_ one. The one who deposed the…” Seymour’s countenance contorts in disgust at the unspoken word, but she continues. “That’s wrong. I _know_ that image of me is wrong, but I don’t know which one is _right_.”

Parr takes a deep breath. This requires tact. A firm hand, but not one that smothers.

She is not qualified to provide this, but she’s the only one here right now.

“What sort of images come to mind?”

Jane thinks for a moment. “Mother.” Her lips curl into something that _might_ be a smile, but isn’t. “I was a mother for twelve whole days, but _that_ is what defines me more than anything else in my twenty-nine years. And that boy Henry placed all his hopes upon? He was manipulated by his kin, and died young. Truly his _mother’s child_.”

A pang of empathy tightens Catherine’s chest. It is times like this that she envies Anne’s fate, in a twisted way. That little boy with such prospects, such promise – for her and Jane, he was all that in one moment, and gone, dead, a failure of a ruler in the next. Would it make the pain and grief easier, if they had ‘outlived’ their children by hundreds of years, watching the world go on without them?

But, Jane looks like she’s going to cry, so she can’t dwell on that any longer.

“What other images come to mind?”

“I don’t know. Boring? Ruthless?”

“False. If you were ruthless, you wouldn’t be concerned about seeking atonement. If you were boring, you wouldn’t be able to think of all the things I hear you talk about with Kat.”

Seymour looks Parr dead in the eye. There is a wound – a bad scrape, by the looks of it – just next to her right temple. “You seem to know quite a bit about me. Who do _you_ think I am?”

“You’re a creator.”

Jane not-smiles again. “Yes. Of Edward.”

“Not just him. I’ve seen your embroidery – before _and_ after. It’s phenomenal. Truly. You are capable of making great art, Jane.”

Seymour remains silent for quite some time, her unblinking gaze now firmly focused on the ceiling.

“May I ask, Jane, if you went out last night?”

“I did,” she replies softly, and perhaps a little guiltily. “Just to clear my head a bit. I was on my way back, and… what are the shiny things, the ones that growl like an animal…?”

“A car?”

“Ah, that’s right, a _car_. I was hit by a _car_.” Parr squeezes Seymour’s hand tighter. “And I dusted myself off and walked home, which turned out to be… more difficult than I anticipated. I am guessing you asked because you heard me. I apologise for disturbing you.”

Parr admits to herself that ‘disturbing’ is probably the right word. “If I knew it was you, I would have helped you. Honestly, the fact you walked at _all_ astounds me.”

“Oh, it did not feel natural in the slightest, but it’s quite amazing what one’s body can do if you push it hard enough.”

_What_ this _body can do._ Perhaps Anne and Jane should talk more.

“Well, there’s another thing you can say about yourself, then,” Catherine says.

“Mmm?”

“You’re determined. Nobody who walks on broken… broken, or dislocated?” Jane shrugs, and Parr ignores the anxiety settling in her stomach – what does she do if they’re broken? “Nobody who walks when they _should not be able to_ isn’t determined.”

She can almost hear Jane’s mind desperately try to figure out a way to deny this claim, and she settles on “It wasn’t true before.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Parr shoots back. “It can be true _now_. Do you want it to be?”

“…I think… I _do_ want to be different than I was. Better. But, the thought of living up to that idea, that… _conception_ of who I was supposed to be – I hate it. I just can’t do it.” Seymour fidgets with Parr’s fingers. “I think being someone else would be a compromise.”

“But you won’t be someone else. You’ll just be a different you.”

“If you say so.”

In the lull that follows, Parr takes in what she herself has said, and makes a decision.

“You know how Boleyn’s been talking about museums and galleries?” she starts. “There’s one she mentioned that I’ve been meaning to visit. Kat will probably want to go, and Anne, since it’s not _that_ museum – once we’ve fixed your legs, would you like to come too?”

“Hm. I think it might be a good idea. They… collect things, yes? I might find something new to try.”

“Yeah. You’re right. Something new.” Parr stands. “I’ll get the new anatomy book. Are you alright for the moment?”

Jane beams. “I will be.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's October. Working on something short for Halloween, in addition to this.  
> Warning for mild body horror.

Howard stares at the little cup in front of her, fingers steepled, eyes narrowed.

“Well?” Anna prompts.

“It’s very sweet. Not sure what to think of it.” Katherine takes another sceptical sip from it. “Okay, never mind. It’s definitely good.”

Parr, the note-taker, puts ‘hot chocolate’ on the ‘good’ side of the little chart she’s drawn up, taking its place beside ‘dresses with pockets’ and ‘no more death penalty’.

“What about your coffee, Anna?”

von Kleve frowns. “I’m not sure. I feel like it’s _supposed_ to be good. There wouldn’t be the signs, otherwise.” She points to the sign on the wall of the cafe – _What Goes Best With a Cup of Coffee? Another Cup_. “I dunno. It tastes a bit like it was _burnt_ , somehow.”

“Should I put it in the ‘research needed’ category?”

“I think so. There _are_ different types, if my conversation with the worker is anything to go by.”

Parr dutifully writes that down.

“I was wondering why they were looking at you funny,” Howard contributes.

“Oh. You didn’t hear me. I was playing up the whole German thing a _lot_ – that way, if there’s a gap in my knowledge, they’ll assume I don’t know about because I’m foreign, and _not_ because I’m five hundred years old.”

“What if they have coffee in Germany? The names are all Italian, so, would they change them?”

“Damn,” Parr mutters. Her eyes are not on the board. They are on the other patrons, one in particular.

“Put something in the wrong space?” Anna asks, with a half-smile.

“No. It’s the ghost hunter person – we’ve been spotted. Act natural.”

Thankfully, they all have experience in acting calm and composed in stressful situations. The representative approaches, ignorant of the anxiety they are causing, and Parr gives them a polite smile in greeting.

“What a coincidence seeing you here,” she says weakly.

“Well, I hope it’s a happy one. I don’t suppose Anna von Kleve has shown up yet, has she?”

Anna gives Parr a pointed look, and that’s all the warning anyone receives for what comes out of her mouth next.

“Zhat is me. Vas zhere somezhing you vanted?”

The representative blinks. “You’re quite a bit younger than I thought you’d be. Ah, well, it’s only that you haven’t responded to our emails. While we will comply with your wishes, of course, whatever they are, there have been some… uh, developments in your area that the dynamic duo were hoping to investigate.”

The _what_?

Anna raises an eyebrow. “Ve have experienced no… vhat is zhe vord in your language? No new _über_ _natural_ _ich_ incidents since you last visited. Vhat reason vould you have to return?”

“Why, the dead rising up again, of course. Have you not seen?”

Parr’s nails dig into her palms.

“I have not,” von Kleve responds, outwardly impassive.

The representative takes a little rectangle out of their pocket, and pokes at it for a few moments before turning it around to face the three.

Ah, Parr thinks to herself. A very small television. Though, what it is showing is not terribly clear – as if it’s through frosted glass.

The images are taken from on high, most likely out of a window. It shows a figure lying in the middle of an empty road, which then sits up. Though she can only just tell it’s a person, Parr can tell that a head should _never_ be at that particular angle.

The blurry little silhouette seems to realise this as well, by its suddenly jerky movements. It reaches up, and with a sharp tug (despite the lack of sound Parr can almost _hear_ the _crack_ ), its head is at least facing forward. It stands – or tries to, requiring a few goes before it manages to get on its feet. Then, it shuffles out of view, and the recording ends.

“I feel ill,” says Howard.

Anna looks to the representative. “You have reason to believe zhis person is… I am not sure of zhe English vord…”

“A zombie?” Where has Parr heard that before? “Well, like everything we deal with, there is no conclusive proof. But, a person’s neck should not bend like that – and it appears to show no pain at all.” Not _it_ , Parr struggles not to say. _She_. “Don’t you find that curious, considering how close it is to your property?”

“So you zhink my ghost-house has somezhing to do viz zhis… _performance_.”

“Well, no. _But_ , shooting an episode in that area would give us an opportunity to talk about it -”

“ _D_ _as reicht_. I have no desire to disturb _any_ of my tenants,” von Kleve gestures to Parr and Howard, “for your employer’s benefit. If zhere _are_ ghosts or _weiderg_ _ä_ _nger_ in zhe area – vhich I find unlikely at best – ve have no desire to anger zhem by permitting your comrades to do zheir little experiments. I am sorry, but my response remains zhe same.”

The representative sighs. “That’s quite all right. My bosses had lost interest for a bit, but then this popped up – I’m just not looking forward to telling them ‘no’, is all.”

At this, Howard comes alive again.

“Saying ‘no’ is okay,” she urges. “I reckon there are a few people in the world who need to hear it more often. Listen, is your boss gonna kill you if you tell them ‘no’?”

“…No?”

“Exactly! And they need to learn that sometimes they can’t get what they want, and that it’s not your fault. So, go give them Anna’s answer, take none of the blame, and get all of the satisfaction from saying that magic word.”

“…Right.” They seem to be filled with a bit more courage than before. “Right! Yes! Thank you. Um, sorry for bothering you, it’s just – ahem. Yes. Thanks for your time. I’ll let them know.”

Parr smiles politely, and the representative goes back to their table, happier than they were before they came to them. It is only when she’s sure that they’re distracted that she puts her head in her hands.

“That was Jane, wasn’t it?” Katherine asks quietly.

“I think so.”

“What was she doing outside like that?”

“Identity crisis,” Parr explains. von Kleve nods in understanding. “I’m almost positive that getting hit by a car wasn’t part of it.”

“You can’t tell for sure it’s her, anyway. No-one with any sense will think that recording is proof of anything,” Anna adds.

“Yeah, it’s the ones _without_ sense I’m worried about.”

“They might know something,” Howard mumbles. Her two companions turn to her. “About why we’re here and… not quite alive. And, Cath, you said you would like to understand it more.”

“I did.” Parr runs her fingers through her hair. “But, not from that lot. I have a feeling whatever we say to them will just be repeated to the masses.”

von Kleve strokes her chin, and gestures with her head towards the representative. “What about just that one?”

“…Hm. Maybe.”

Katherine gasps. “I have an idea! Hold on.”

And she gets up from the table without another word. A few minutes later, she returns, putting a slip of paper in her pocket.

“Katherine,” chides Anna, firmly but gently. “What did we tell you about warning us when you have an idea?”

“Ah, right. Sorry. Got a personal email address from them, so I can pretend to go behind your backs. Not gonna tie anything to stuff happening in the house – just going to ask questions about dead people walking. See what I can learn.”

“A very clever plan,” Parr compliments, and she makes a mental note to put ‘making Katherine smile’ in the ‘good’ column of her chart.

-

“So, he caused problems on purpose?”

“Yes, to get the detective’s attention,” Anne affirms.

“And because the other priest didn’t complain, and stayed beside him, he knew he was trying to get the silver cross?”

“Yes!”

“But it was the attack on reason and logic that completely confirmed to the Father his companion wasn’t a real Catholic priest?”

Anne goes quiet, before mumbling, “Well, I’m not sure about _that_ part…”

The two look up when Katherine announces their return. Jane, too, who has been more-or-less living on the sofa while her legs heal, her embroidery in one hand an a needle in the other.

Anna places the thread they had bought onto the table in front of the television – Jane smiles in thanks. Katherine also dips her hand into the shopping bag, and holds up a tin of instant hot chocolate.

“Ooh, extravagant!” Anne remarks. “How much was it? _Hideously_ expensive?”

“Three pounds.”

“Three pounds,” de Aragon echoes in awe, “For a drink that was once the stuff of emperors.”

“We have other really expensive things to buy these days, like private islands and luxury yachts.”

“What’s a yacht?”

“Boat. A pleasure vessel, if you will.”

“I have another word for you to define, Anne,” Parr cuts in. “What does ‘zombie’ mean?”

de Aragon stiffens slightly.

Boleyn scratches the back of her neck. “Uh… I think it means someone who’s not paying attention? Or, maybe someone who’s really tired. I’ve heard people say someone’s ‘like’ a zombie, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a real one. Why?”

“Overheard it earlier, that’s all.” She shares a look with Anna – the definition must have changed. There was nothing in the recording that showed how _tired_ Jane was.

Howard takes a seat next to Seymour, her posture unnaturally straight. “Now, I know how this sounds coming from me, but… how is your neck feeling?”

Jane stares blankly at Katherine, but her grip on the needle grows tight, the knuckles on her hand go white.

Anne grins.

“Okay, what wacky and surprisingly fatal hijinks did you get up to _this_ time, Janey?”

“Who told you?” Jane presses, ignoring Boleyn.

“They _showed_ us, actually. On a little…” Howard makes a small rectangle with her fingers.

Anne’s jaw drops, panic edging into her face and her voice. “They got you on video?!”

 _Video_. First-person singular present indicative of the Latin _videre,_ meaning ‘to see’.

“There was a visual recording of the incident, yes,” Parr affirms, hesitantly.

“How was the quality?!”

“Bad,” Anna replies. “Looking-at-someone-fifty-yards-away-on-a-foggy-evening bad. If you didn’t know our situation, which no-one does, there’s no way you’d be able to tell who it was.”

“Oh, thank God for small mercies.”

“I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised anyone was watching – the car was going so fast, I couldn’t see properly…”

Howard gives Jane a pat on the shoulder. “It’s fine. Just look both ways before crossing the road in future, yeah?”

de Aragon stands up abruptly, and all conversation ceases.

“Excuse me,” she says in a frighteningly calm voice, and climbs the stairs up to her room.

The remaining queen-consorts look to each other for answers. None of them have any, except for Anne.

“That’s her upset voice,” she notes. “Used it a lot with Henry – you know, when you couldn’t let someone know you’re angry, or sad, ‘cause they might tear you to pieces if you do? You know what I’m talking about, right?”

Parr certainly does. She would say the others know the concept, as well.

“This is all my fault. I’m going to go and apologise as best I can.”

“Jane, don’t apologise for things that aren’t your fault,” Parr counters. “Anna, can you check on my god-mother, to see if she’s okay?”

Anna gapes. “Me?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who hasn’t scared her somehow.” Parr points to herself, “Throat slit,” to Katherine, “head comes off,” to Jane, “death cough, amongst other things,” and to Anne, “Anne Boleyn.”

“That’s fair,” mutters Boleyn.

“ _And_ you went through many of the same things she did. You’re probably the best one for the job.”

“I mean, makes my lot look mild. However, you are forgetting one important thing – I never met her, back before. So, um – advice?”

Two former servants and the woman’s god-daughter are able to offer up plenty. Don’t make her feel like she’s weak, or incapable. Don’t sneak up on her. Don’t patronise her. Let her talk, and show that you’re listening. She gets very touchy-feely sometimes – if you need to escape, try and slip out instead of throwing her off.

(Anne gives that last piece of advice, and it poses _several_ questions.)

“Right. Right.” Anna takes a fortifying breath – it’s a bit wheezy, but not horrifyingly so. “If I’m not out in an hour, please come to rescue me.”

“Break a leg!” Anne calls after her, realises what she’s said, and shoots an apologetic glance in Jane’s direction.

Parr goes to check on Anna once the hour is up. She’s the quietest, after all.

The door to de Aragon’s room is slightly ajar. Through the gap, both Catalina and Anna are visible, sitting on the floor. Parr’s god-mother has her arms around Anna’s chest, and her face is buried in the other woman’s shoulder.

Honestly, it is a scene  Catherine cannot rightly comprehend.  This epitome of  queenly majesty , who has done so much – the first female ambassador in Europe, the queen who made  women’s education fashionable by ensuring Mary had only the best tutors, the one who was the closest to refusing King Henry the Tyrant and getting away with it, who had evangelicals and conservatives across the continent in support of her belief –  simply needed a hug.  Then again, how long has it been since she’s received one?

“Okay?” Parr mouths. Anna nods, and so Parr waits outside until de Aragon is ready to face her. Once she does, it’s all quite simple. She doesn’t like the thought of Jane being that seriously hurt (despite the absence of pain), or that the evidence will interfere with their effort to benefit society. She worries that she’s the only person who is not so blasé about it all, and she can’t shake the feeling that all of this points to the idea there’s something very wrong with the way they’ve all come back.

“That word you wanted to know about. ‘Zombie’,” she tells them. “I looked it up after that night, to see what sort of insult it was. It means ‘a reanimated corpse’. That’s us, isn’t it?”

Anna’s eyes meet Parr’s. “I think we should have a house meeting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes [here](https://shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com/post/631222081527349248/historical-references-in-what-are-you-going-to-do).


	10. Chapter 10

_Zombie. An undead corporeal revenant created through the reanimation of a corpse. Often depicted as mindless, or without free will._

Hm. That doesn’t seem quite right.

 _Revenant. An animated corpse that is believed to have been revived from death to haunt the living. From the Old French_ revenant _(the returning)._

Parr turns to the others. “Do you feel like haunting anyone who’s still alive?”

Murmurs of dissent. Boleyn mumbles something about a priest. Not that either, then.

“Anna, you mentioned something the other day. Vee-der-gang…?”

“ _Wiedergänger_?” Anna frowns. “It’s unlikely. They’re usually around to avenge something, or because their soul isn’t ready to be released – the fact that we’re here _now_ , rather than straight after we died, makes me think that isn’t the answer.”

“Right. Well, good news, we are not easily defined. Which is also the bad news.” Even if the representative does come up with some clue – unlikely, in Parr’s opinion – there’s also the matter of time. Why now? Who is still alive that has the means and the motive?

“As a former ghost -” Anne stops, blinks. “Wow, that’s a weird sentence.”

“Hasn’t stopped you before,” Katherine quips.

“ _Speaking from experience_ , I rather like whatever this is. Doesn’t matter to me that I’m technically dead, or how I got here. I can touch things, I can be heard and seen, and, frankly, that’s all that I’m really concerned with.”

de Aragon shakes her head. “Something is going to go wrong, with our luck. I would like to be able to prevent the worst _before_ it occurs, so I can get on with my charity work without fear.”

“I’d like to be able to breathe without coughing up blood, if at all possible,” Jane adds from her position in Anna’s arms (she could have walked, but von Kleve had decided it was taking too long).

Fair, Parr thinks. “Anne? Who do you see about the dead coming back to life, these days?”

“Hell if I know. No-one’s tried it at the Tower, and if it didn’t happen there, I don’t know about it.”

“There’s no way it’s common knowledge,” Anna sighs. “Apart from the fact the world isn’t overrun with the dead, Witchcraft is not a well-regarded profession. Anne, how do they punish it now there’s no executions?”

“Oh. Um. They don’t. Not anymore.”

All eyes are on Anne again.

“I looked it up, because of my own history, you know,” she goes on, “and since everyone figured it’s all lies anyway, they decided not to lock people up for it. You get in trouble if you, like, trick people out of their money, but doing all that magician-y stuff is totally fine, now.”

Catherine says nothing, but she has her own beliefs about magicians – none of them sympathetic. You are punished if you fool people into believing you, but it’s still legal? Surely the two would overlap to the point where there’s little to no difference between them.

Howard bites her lip. “So, wait, I’m trying to understand this. Does that mean I could walk into a witchcraft shop and ask the proprietor to put a curse on someone for me? Not that I would.”

There is silence for a moment, as all six of them ponder the implications.

von Kleve speaks first. “Parr, look up if witchcraft shops exist.”

“I hope not,” she mutters to herself, as she turns back to the computer.

-

To Catherine’s great sorrow, there is.

It’s called a _metaphysical supply shop_ , but there’s no point in dancing around the matter. It sells books and stones and statues and things that smell nice, among other trivialities that are meant to improve your connection to that which is beyond sight.

Parr browses the books, looking for anything that might explain how to raise the dead, while Boleyn and Howard go to speak with someone who works here. Catherine finds only advice on how to open her chakras, and makes a mental note to find out what chakras are.

She never paid much stock in magicians when she was alive (for personal reasons), but there may be something to it all, even if it’s only true for a select few. Natural philosophy is out as an explanation – even if there was a virus that brought people back with all their mental faculties, it doesn’t seem to be contagious and has very specific criteria for infection. There is a flaw in the idea that God brought them back, as well, despite the fact only His power is supposed to be able to restore the dead to life. Two flaws, actually. One is the conceptthat she and the other five wives of Henry VIII were the most deserving, out of all the people who have ever lived, of receiving a second chance – while they certainly had a bad time, it probably wasn’t the worst of any collective of women ever. ‘Suffering begets reward’ is a logical fallacy, anyway, even if it _is_ one she used to subscribe to.

The second is that none of them are actually alive.

There is the possibility, which hasn’t been denied, is that they were deliberately brought back via some sort of ritual. That doesn’t seem likely to Parr either, and everything about this place only serves to confirm her bias.

The cards lined up for display catch her eye, mostly because they make her think of the white card that heralded new arrivals. Each stack has different names, and titles such as clairvoyant, psychic, crystal healer, homeopath. None of them say ‘necromancer’, but she takes one of each. If they can’t find what they need here, these might be good leads.

When she goes back to the counter, she notices the person behind it (the owner?) shuffling a deck of cards. Anne is sitting on a stool opposite them.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting my future read,” Anne replies, as casually as she would announce she’s going for a walk.

“You’re gaining insight into your past and present, too,” the owner corrects her, “so as to better understand your predicament.”

“Also that, yeah.”

Parr watches with dubious interest. Is that a tarot deck they’re shuffling? But those are just for games, surely. It must be that if Anne wins the trick, her future is bright.

The owner draws the first card, a skeleton on a horse. Above the image is the Roman numeral for thirteen and the word _Death_.

Boleyn looks up.

“Is that bad?”

The owner smiles. “Not necessarily. It just means there’s been a life-changing event somewhere in your past. Is that right?”

Anne shoots a pointed glance at Parr.

“…Yeah, I would say so.”

“Then the cards are attuned. Not to worry, there’s only one in the deck. Now, your present…”

They draw another card.

 _Death_.

Silence.

Parr gets the feeling that _this_ is bad.

Appearing to be slightly dazed, the owner draws a third card – _Death_ – and looks up at Anne for answers _they_ are meant to have.

Anne stares back.

“Um.” Boleyn shifts on the stool, before slowly getting up, eyes trained on the person in front of her as if they were some sort of dangerous animal. “I’m gonna… go…”

“God help you,” the owner calls out.

“Too late for that!”

The bell rings.

Kat appears from behind a shelf of statues. “What’s going on? Anne seemed weirdly eager to leave.” Parr gestures to the cards on the counter. “Oh. That doesn’t look good.”

“It’s not even supposed to be real…” the owner mumbles.

The two Catherines share a look. Surely _that’s_ illegal, Parr thinks. Having people believe you can tell the future when you know it’s lies? Please let that be illegal.

She holds up the white cards. “Do I need to pay for these?”

No response.

“I think that’s a ‘no’, Cath. Let’s go.”

-

“What’s the difference between a psychic and a clairvoyant?” Anna asks.

The cards Catherine collected are spread out on the table for examination.

Catalina has her hands steepled as she considers it all. “ _Psychic_ is Greek, and _clairvoyant_ is French. One is about thinking, and the other is about seeing.”

“Everyone can think and see, though, that’s not magic.”

“ _These_ are the ones _I’m_ interested in,” Anne says, tapping her finger on a card with the word ‘medium’ written on it. “All of them pretty much mean the same thing, now, but mediums are specifically about speaking with the dead.”

“You know from experience, do you?” de Aragon comments, quietly.

“I deliberately fucked with the ones that weren’t frauds out of principle.”

“ _Language_.”

“Yes, it is.”

Parr studies the cards carefully. Anne has said that most of this lot are frauds – which she accepts – but also that some are legitimate. The question is how to determine which is which, and Parr’s scepticism may prove as much of a detriment as blind belief.

One card grabs her attention.

… She’s being irrational. It’s a common name. That’s why they added ‘of Oxford’ to the end of the real one, who cannot be the same person because the one from Oxford is dead.

“What’s a naturopath?” she asks aloud.

“ _Natura_ is the Latin for birth, _pathos_ is Greek for suffering…”

Kat nods sagely. “‘Birth is suffering.’”

“...I mean… maybe… but, no…” Catalina winces.

“It _s_ _ounds_ the most ominous, true,” Anne frowns at the card. “He’s a medium as well, though. Where’s he located? He sounds shady enough.”

Parr stays silent as the other cross-reference the address on the card with their map of London. Her pessimism will not help matters. Not when they need answers.

She stays up late. Theoretically, she could stop her mind from racing, but frankly she wants to spend as much time as possible _not_ searching for con men posing as cunning men. Thankfully, John was far enough removed from all that to keep them from being brought up on treason charges, but the later events of that marriage only serve to remind her how much damage might have been caused. So, she sits in her bed, a book in her lap, until her bedroom door creaks open.

Parr looks up. “Kat? You alright?”

“Yeah,” Howard replies, after a moment’s thought. “Checking on you, actually. It seems like you’ve been in a bad mood all day.”

“I just hate magicians. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m going to anyway, sorry. Can I come in?”

Parr beckons her, and Katherine sits on the other side of the bed. In doing so, she catches a glimpse of the book cover.

“I read that one,” she notes. “Very sad, very grisly.”

“Did you like it?”

“Very much. I hope we weren’t brought back like The Creature, though. I worry enough about whether I’m in someone else’s body.”

Catherine stops, looks down at her hands – or, at least, the ones she is currently using. “A terrifying thought. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Pause. “Of all the people in your life you could have a grudge against, I didn’t expect magicians to be among them. Why is that?”

“Something that happened with my brother-in-law. Second marriage. There were a few of them who convinced the man he would be Earl of Warwick, amongst other things.”

“…If it is a magician that brought us back, would you be upset?”

“I think that’s part of the problem, actually. It seems like it’s the right answer, but my own beliefs mean I don’t want to accept that it is. The reason I was quiet today was because I was – am – trying to work through it.”

“Oh, I get it now. Like a self-improvement thing.”

“Yeah.”

Her belief was what Parr is known for, she has learned. This doesn’t surprise her in the slightest. Her life was defined by what she had faith in – that the Pope had no say in who goes to Heaven or to Hell. That women were just as capable, had the same right to a proper education, as their male counterparts.

That Thomas loved her. That all she had been through had been worth it, if she meant she got her happy ending.

Belief can be righteous, or sorely misplaced.

“Cath. You’re brooding again, aren’t you?”

Parr nods.

“I think I might go with Anna tomorrow,” she says. “That may help.”

-

This is a very different place.

While the swindler’s occult emporium was a den of lies, at least it was open and well-lit. The air in here is stale, stagnant. Odd effigies and implements line the shelves, along with little bottles filled with...something. The labels on them aren’t clear. While there are books, they all seem to be ancient – cracking leather, yellowed pages, no titles – quite unlike the glossy covers she had seen before.

A man, middle-aged, is watching them with a scrutinising eye and a polite (and obviously fake) smile on his lips. Behind him, there is a wooden, hand-painted sign: Seances Available by Appointment Only.

There’s something else, too, but Parr’s train of thought is interrupted by Anna.

“Who is this?”

von Kleve is pointing at a skull. An actual human skull, just sitting on a table. Parr shudders; she feels like it’s watching her, and she doesn’t know how the ridiculous idea has wormed its way into her brain.

“Ha Ha. I’m afraid I did not acquire it myself, so I could not tell you. I purchased it perfectly legally, however. I have the license and everything.”

Anna studies the skull closely, narrowing her eyes in thought (or suspicion).

The man turns his smile to Parr. “Is there something I can assist you with?”

“Just some questions. That staff behind you…” She’s never seen it in person, but it matches a description she’s heard before. Intricately carved, carefully decorated, with unreadable script and geometric shapes.

“Oh, that?” There’s a bit of an edge to his tone. “Part of my collection, Ha Ha. I used to use it in divination rituals. It isn’t for sale.”

Oh no.

“You are from Oxford, yes?”

“I – yes. How is it you know that?”

Oh _noooo_.

“I believe you knew my brother-in-law,” Parr accuses, now a little frantic herself. It can’t be right. It can’t be. “Does the name William Neville mean anything to you?”

And he _knows_. She sees it is his posture, his expression. The bastard, the liar – she cannot call him a fraud, because he’s here, talking to her.

Anna is torn from the her examination ( _whose skull does she think it is_?) by the tension hanging in the air. She looks to Catherine, whose stare could melt through steel, and the man, the colour drained from his face.

“It does, Your Majesty,” says Richard Jones of Oxford, wizard, necromancer, and a man with a lot of explaining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was reading a biography of Catherine Parr. The sentence "[Richard] Jones of Oxford was a famous wizard and necromancer" hit me like a freight train.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Body Horror, mentions of violence.

Jones’ testimony begins thus: this isn’t his fault.

The William Neville situation could have been handled better by himself, Nashe, and the others, he will admit to that. It was, as Parr had thought, a farce to wring money out of the poor deluded man. He was never going to be Earl of Warwick. Jones and Nashe made it all up, mostly to entertain themselves.

(“ _Wow_.”)

(“You do what you must to make money – I thought to myself, what was the harm in indulging the man?”)

(“Charges of treason?”)

(“…It was charges of treason, yes.”)

The fact that he’s still around is a direct result of that affair – he had asked the king to supply him with the materials to create the philosopher’s stone, as alchemy was always his true vocation. Henry rejected this request, but there were members of his court that were willing to help Jones with his quest. And, wouldn’t you know it, he did it. He created the elixir of life, tested it on himself, and conveniently forgot to inform his patrons. They would misuse the gift, after all.

(“There’s another reason, isn’t there?”)

(“Ah, Ha Ha, well. I only… managed it the once. I couldn’t create a successful second dose, no matter what I tried.” Jones goes quiet. “There is always a price with such things, no?”)

The magician laid low for a few decades, waiting for the metaphorical hounds on his heels to die off and leave him without debtors. It was the late 1580s when he first resurfaced, attempting to steal the title of court occultist from John Dee. He had significantly more experience, after all, and Dee was well and truly out of favour with Queen Elizabeth. He was going to prove his suitability to the Queen by allowing her to speak with rulers past, and those she had lost – an excellent choice, he thought, given the shadow of impending war with Spain was looming over England.

But then Dee, the bastard, had to go and hex the Spanish Armada, solving that problem before it really became one.

(“He _what_?!”)

(“We’re not telling Catalina about this, are we?” Anna says to Parr.)

(“…She’ll probably find out at some point. Best break it to her gently.”)

Jones could not even hope for an audience after that little stunt – no measly seance could never live up to crippling an enemy navy. No, if there were to be a court magician, Dee had proven himself superior.

Elizabeth died about twenty years later, after many of her close friends and companions passed away, sending her into a deep melancholy which lead to her fatal illness. The new king, James I (or James VI, depending on where you’re from), took many steps to outlaw witchcraft, and the age of occult enlightenment ended. The varying laws against sorcery were repealed in the 1950s, and since then, Jones has been eking out a living for himself, through otherworldly communication and selling his alchemical creations, now known as _natural remedies_.

“Still cheating people out of their money, then,” Parr concludes. “You say you’re not responsible for our return, yet you’ve given me no evidence that it’s true. In fact, you’re implying you _did_ have something to do with this.”

“I intended to bring you back in spirit, not in flesh. Reanimation of _that_ sort usually only works with fresh corpses – though, ‘fresh’ is a relative term, isn’t it?”

“Rude,” mutters Anna, the freshest corpse.

Jones ignores this. “I did the preparations for the ritual, but never conducted it before Dee ruined everything. Even if I knew I could bring you back physically, I simply wouldn’t have done it without good reason. I assure you, I did _not_ have a good reason.”

“So you are saying that you set up the pins, but you did not bowl the ball and therefore you cannot be blamed?”

“If we are to use that analogy…” Jones trails off. “Um. Sorry, which one are you?”

Anna scowls. “Anna, born Duchess of Jülich, Cleves and Berg.”

“Right, right, Anne of Cleves, of course, my deepest apologies, Your Majesty.” That’s going to get confusing. “If we were to phrase it in such a manner, I prepared the pins, then hid them in a deep dark cellar, far away from any sign of civilisation. If someone went so far as to bowl them over, then they likely knew exactly what they were doing. As to why you are all physical… I suppose the material components of a human body _are_ present in the environment… but that wouldn’t explain…” He mumbles something about seances, devils, and binding that Parr cannot quite hear in full.

 _We return to the ground, because from it we were taken_ , Catherine thinks to herself. “So, what you are saying is that you don’t know what’s going on, why it’s happened now, or what we are.”

“Eh, yes. You’re quite correct. The only thing I can say for sure is that I was not involved with it.”

“So this was a waste of time.”

Anna scoffs. “A waste of time? At least he’s actually _explained_ how it might have happened. That’s better than I hoped for.”

“If I find further information, Your Majesties, I shall be sure to inform you – provided you promise to leave me in peace.”

“Fine,” Anna says, “request granted. Now, how much is the lizard on the ceiling?”

“His name is William, and he’s not for sale.”

“I’m sorry, _what_ did you name the lizard?!”

-

Anna comes in the door first, and Parr follows behind her, off in her own little world. She only vaguely notes the people see her enter – Seymour on the sofa with her embroidery, naturally, with Boleyn and de Aragon are talking quietly about a Midsomer County (Did they make new counties since she’s been gone?) next to her. Kat is in one corner, playing her keyboard, and removes her headphones upon von Kleve’s and Parr’s arrival.

Parr’s thoughts are elsewhere. Presumably, the cause of all this was some esoteric ritual, largely lost to history (likely destroyed, if witchcraft laws tightened further under this King James). However, it is not impossible that someone alive got their hands on it and tried it out of curiosity (or other reasons). However, that explanation doesn’t account for physical forms, or the grandest mystery – this house, whatever’s outside its windows, and why this collection of historical figures showed up here of all places.

She doesn’t think Jones is lying about his part in matters, though, if she tries to look at it objectively. He is quite obviously self-serving; if he _did_ intend to bring them back, he would have wanted something from them, and he would have let them know what it was instead of leaving them to blunder about on their own. So, that leaves a person (or people) learned enough to know of such a spell, and foolish enough to perform it, possibly incorrectly. That could be anyone currently living, _except_ for Richard Jones of Oxford.

Anna is explaining all that happened, from the sound of it, while Catherine is still making sense of things.

“I dislike the way he puts it,” says de Aragon. “The insinuation that resurrection, however imperfect, is mere pageantry does not sit well with me.”

“Makes me sound like an exhibit and not a person, and I’ve had quite enough of that,” Boleyn agrees.

What is the definition of a person? They have the capacity to reason, to determine what is right and wrong, but does an amalgamation of ash and dust and clotted blood truly _count_ as human?

“Cath? What do you think of all this?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out,” she replies to whoever asked.

“Well, share with the class, then.” That’s definitely Anne.

“I have a feeling that this was a mistake. Not this discussion, but -” she gestures to herself. “I don’t like the idea that we’re here not because someone _knew_ what they were doing, but because they _didn’t_.”

“If the purpose was to impress Elizabeth, I don’t understand why I’m here,” says Jane. “I don’t think she would remember me.”

“Nor me,” Catalina hums.

Anne is silent.

“That’s why I think something went wrong, or right, depending on your point of view, and why I believe Jones is innocent of this particular crime. Partially, at least.”

“If you were to figure out who did do it, what would you do to them?” Kat says, after a moment’s thought.

Parr blinks. Wonderful, something else to ponder. “I don’t know. I suppose it depends on their reason. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Pause. “I’d probably thank them. I didn’t even get to age twenty before my date with the axeman, so I don’t mind getting another go.”  
“Everything I hear about your death makes me appreciate mine more,” Catalina mutters, mostly to herself.

“Honestly? Margaret Pole’s was worse.” de Aragon’s face remains still, but her eyes widen. “It just serves my point, really. After all, the way _your_ life ended, while not as traumatising, wasn’t particularly painless either. Didn’t you ever wish you could do things differently? Didn’t you wish for a clean slate?”

Before Catalina can answer (it’s yes, Catherine _knows_ it’s yes), Parr interrupts. “I’m going upstairs. Call me if I’m needed.”

She doesn’t hear any objections. That doesn’t mean they aren’t made.

Catherine doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting here, staring at her hands.

It’s been… she is reluctant to say ‘good’, but for the most part she enjoys being back. She’s learnt so many things she would have never known in life – like how the earth goes around the sun, or the laws of physics, or that _her and Jane’s deaths were entirely preventable_. That was a _fun_ trip to the museum.

However, her confirmation bias keeps telling her experiencing those joys was unintended, or, if it was deliberate, it is not the reward that Katherine thinks it is.

Deep down, there’s a little voice that says Catherine Parr doesn’t deserve _any_ sort of second chance.

Parr takes her right wrist in her left hand, rolling the joint around. It gave her such grief, in her last days. Not just her wrist, though it hurt, but nearly everything. How the child she’d waited so long for was what would kill her, how she’d put such stock in romantic fantasy that she’d allowed the unthinkable to happen. That everyone around her, bar a few visitors, would actively benefit from her death – and she was unable to do anything but pray. She takes little comfort in the fact one of her enemies was brought to justice.

She dreams about Thomas, sometimes. About that night, in the gardens of Chelsea Manor, the stars twinkling above them, his voice soft and sweet, speaking so affectionately to her.

She wants to say ‘no’, to scream that every word from his mouth was a lie, tell him that she knows he loved himself more than any other, that she would never marry him because of what he would do. But, her voice never co-operates. She repeats what she said in 1547, when she was blind, stupid.

She jumps at the loud _thump_ on her door. The force causes it to creak open, revealing a slightly bewildered Anne Boleyn.

“Did you forget you can’t walk through walls anymore?” Parr asks.

“I mean, I’m usually pretty good about it. Dunno what happened there.” Boleyn shakes her head, as if to clear it. “The rest have been worried about you spiralling, so I said I’d check on you.”

Parr gives a half-hearted smile. “I appreciate it, but I’m not going to fall into a pit of existential terror or anything.”

“But there are other emotional pits. Do you feel like you can't share it with anyone?”

The last time Parr was honest with her feelings, everyone thought she was delirious from fever.

“They don’t need to deal with my worries on top of everything else.”

“Catherine.” It’s the most authoritative she’s ever heard Anne sound – which is weird, because she _was_ queen at one point. “There are only five other people in the whole world who understand what you’re going through. Not just that, they’re willing to help you work through whatever your brain is telling you. As someone who went 128 years without having a proper conversation, let your really niche support group do some supporting, for – oh. Hand.”

“...Hand?”

Anne points. “Hand.”

Parr looks down. Oh, yes, now she sees. It’s not attached to the rest of her arm. Did she pull it off accidentally, when she flinched? That prompts a lot of questions, actually. Can she pull anything else off, if she tried? Can she de-limb other people? Is this exclusive to her and the two beheadings, or can any of them do it?

But she doesn’t really think of any answers. Now, Parr is panicking, because _her hand’s come off_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It allegedly took eleven blows from an axe to separate Margaret Pole's head from her body. Katherine Howard's took one.  
> Both were miscarriages of justice.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for non-explicit body horror.

Catalina of House Trastámara does not always like being right.

The very first example of this she can think of is Anne Boleyn. If Henry was willing to give up his wife of over twenty years for some random woman who promised him a son, he would do the same to that woman if she failed. It was not quite a shock when she was told of Boleyn’s beheading – the method certainly was, but the reason was not.

Now? Well, she was pretty firm in her belief something would go wrong, given the sheer collection of misfortunes that had befell them, in life and in death. Again, her vindication give her no joy.

She has been informed by Anna, her fellow foreigner, that Catherine Parr did _not_ die from getting her hand chopped off, so this is a bit of a problem. Catherine does not appear to be in any condition to tell people herself – considering how well she took her _murder_ , it comes as a surprise that this has shaken her so deeply. This is strange, right?

Right?!

 _Right_.

“But we’re not decomposing!” Boleyn says confidently. “So this may not even be an issue!”

Catherine is upstairs. Jane and Katherine are with her, to make sure she’s alright – or, as alright as she can be given the circumstances. Anna is leaning against a wall, clearly deep in thought, while Boleyn strides around the room as she talks. de Aragon remains on the sofa.

Catalina shakes her head. “I would be inclined to agree if she had done this intentionally, for whatever mad reason she may have to do so. But an accident? That implies _anyone_ could do that to her – to _us_.”

She is trying not to be too negative. _No se hizo la miel para la boca del asno_. Coming back to ‘life’ is not a bad thing, they have all largely agreed on that, and to waste the opportunity they’ve been given would be selfish. However, one must be at least a touch realistic about it. It means a change of priorities _and_ of concerns.

“I think it would depend on how strong it was,” von Kleve reasons. “I mean, I doubt living Jane could pick me up as easily as she did in that bar fight. And vice versa, I suppose.”

“Do you really believe one could use such strength by accident?”

“If they were panicking,” Anna replies, a strange look on her face.

de Aragon catches something out of the corner of her eye, and frowns. “Anne Boleyn, you had better not be trying to pull off your own arm.”

“You can’t tell me what to do anymore, Queenie.”

Despite the dismissal, there is a brief flicker of a smile on Catalina’s lips. Anne called her Queen.

Footsteps on the staircase. Relatively quick, so probably not Seymour. Katherine eventually comes into view.

“How is she?” Catalina asks.

“She’s trying to get to sleep, at the moment,” Katherine informs them. “Jane is making sure she does.”

“And…” Boleyn waves her arms about vaguely. “You know…”

“Her hand is bandaged onto her wrist. She can move it about, so I think it’s kind of the same thing as you and me.” After a moment, she reaches up and rubs her throat, almost as an afterthought.

“Are _you_ alright, Katherine?” Anna queries.

“I mean, all things considered, I’m surprisingly stable. I suppose it helps that I’m around people who get it.”

“I mean with what happened to Parr.”

Katherine pauses, rubs her neck again. “It’s empathy, I think. I get why she’s upset – it means we might not be as well put-together as we hoped. But, I can handle it.”

“Well, you let us know if you can’t.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine, really, it… hurts a lot less.”

Good. Both C(K)atherines are alright. Now to contemplate what the Howard girl said.

_Not as well put-together as we hoped._

There were no outward signs that anything was wrong with Catherine’s wrist, which is why it came as a shock to everyone. The scar around Boleyn’s neck should _not_ be indicative of what she can do with her head, yet she can put it back where it belongs with no stitches in sight.

de Aragon looks down at her own hands. How were they put together? With what? She has accepted, like her god-daughter before her, that she may never get a proper answer, but the lack of understanding vexes her. Try as she might, Catalina cannot shake the image that she could be at the charity shop, picking up a heavy box of donations, and her arms just… come off, like branches snapping off a tree. That should be an irrational concern, like that dream she has where she is cut up by a servant, should it not? Why is this something she has legitimate reason to worry about?!

She shakes her head. _Lavar cerdos con jabón es perder tiempo y jabón._ Panicking or ruminating is far from productive, however much she wants to do so. Catalina must approach the issue with decorum, dignity. Follow Anna’s example – take things calmly, and adapt where needed.

There is a soft tearing noise, like someone ripping paper in half. Catalina risks another glance at Boleyn.

…

“Are you happy now?” She asks.

“I have to admit, I kind of regret it, but there _are_ a lot of possibilities with this.”

“ _Put it back on._ ”

It is not going to be easy to do.

-

Jane Seymour is worried. That’s what she does. She worries.

If she’s frank, she completely understands why Cath is taking this as hard as she is. Jane herself was near-catatonic for at _least_ a few days after she found out she was dead, and was out-of-sorts for a while after her _automotive accident_ and the implications made clear by its effects. Cath needs time and support to recover. Nothing would be gained by forcing her to confront her fears; she might get worse if that doesn’t happen on her own terms. She is a grown woman, and she certainly does not need to be coddled.

But that won’t stop Jane from _really_ wanting to, which is why she’s accepted Katherine the Younger’s offer to go out – to keep herself from interfering.

She has asked Jane to accompany her while she ‘gets her hair done’, a concept that has been explained but nevertheless perplexes. Perhaps Jane is still used to Tudor fashions, in that regard, and the gable hoods she favoured. There wasn’t much you needed to do, except tuck it underneath. Now, women and men have it at all lengths and colours and styles, and the variety fascinates and intimidates her.

She looks down at the pictures in her magazine, beholds what is proclaimed as _fashion_ these days. It’s not her thing, she thinks. It never was.

“Jane? I’m finished.”

Katherine stands before her. At first, Jane thinks nothing has changed, but Katherine brings her ponytail over her shoulder – the tips of her hair are now a startlingly bright pink.

“I like it,” Jane says, and she’s a bit surprised that she means it. “Subtle, yet striking.”

Katherine grins. “It is, isn’t it? The lady who did it was really great with helping me decide what colour would look best. Oh, do you need help getting up?”

“No, no. I need to practice doing it myself.”

She’s pretty sure people heard the creaking as she gets to her feet, given the funny looks she’s getting. But, before she can start worrying about it, Katherine takes Jane’s arm in her own, and they leave together.

Their journey down the street is slow, but they are going at a steady pace. Jane should really be grateful that she’s walking at all, instead of performing the unnatural, stilted shuffle she had been forced to previously. She should be grateful she’s not underneath a stone slab somewhere in Windsor Castle, if it comes down to it. There is blue sky above and a light breeze on their faces – no more dark bedchambers or cold cells, thick with impending death.

Katherine may not feel the same, however, given where her life ended.

Jane has insisted Katherine should go on ahead if she wants, but Howard also insists on staying with her, an excellent (if perhaps a touch nervous) travelling companion. It is surprising that the queen with the best reputation and the queen with the worst were so close – perhaps because both of their public images are built on artifice and propaganda, though Jane is perfectly fine with admitting the lies about Katherine are far, far more malicious than anything she will ever be faced with.

“Where is it we’re going?” Jane asks.

“Oh, there’s a little place up here I thought you might like.”

Really? Well, that doesn’t narrow it down at all. Jane likes a lot of things, and she’s sure some overlap with what Katherine _thinks_ Jane likes – but, the possibility exists that some don’t.

Jane feels a little pang of hurt in her chest, where her heart should be. She’s terribly good at making herself sad.

“We’re here. I think.” A pause. “Yes, the sign says so.”

Jane looks up. Not a _little_ place, she thinks. It’s all very bright and colourful, almost to an extreme, especially the posters in the window. She’s not quite sure about this…

…But, Katherine seems to recognise the look on Jane’s face, and she doesn’t want to disappoint her. Jane promised to try new things, after all.

So, with Katherine by her side, she steps in.

There are rows and rows of art supplies. Fabrics and thread, paints and paper. It seems like there’s something for everyone, and the clientele reflects that; people of all ages are wandering the aisles.

“They do classes here, sometimes,” says Katherine, before adding quickly, “if you want to, of course, you don’t have to. Only, you mentioned you’re almost done with your embroidery piece, and you wanted to try something else…”

“I don’t know why I’m so surprised that people care about what I say.”

Katherine is clearly unsure if this is a sign of approval, so she waits, fidgeting, until Jane continues.

“There was so much I meant to do,” Jane says, quietly. “I thought, once I was queen, I would be able to help people. Change things. But, no. No-one cared unless it benefited them, and it was only after I was silent for good that people loved me.”

But she made that prison for herself, didn’t she? _Bound to Obey and Serve._ _Sit Still and Look Queenly._

She remembers what Cath told her. Henry had a painting commissioned of his family, during her tenure. Henry was in it, of course, and Edward, Elizabeth, and Mary. Catherine, the king’s current wife, wasn’t. _Jane_ was.

It was only after her death that Henry ‘loved’ her, but she is certain that he mourned for only for his own loss.

“Thank you, Katherine,” Jane finishes. “Thank you for listening.”

-

Anne doesn’t know why she’s in charge of looking after Parr.

Actually, that’s a lie – she offered to take care of her, explicitly, but she didn’t expect people to _let her do it_. Now, Catalina’s off at her charity thing, Jane and Kat have gone shopping, and Anna’s… somewhere. Boleyn really wants her, or anyone, to come back and help her. She has no talent for comforting people, and is usually the reason they’re upset in the first place.

Parr is up, but clearly just going through the motions. They’ve managed to coax her downstairs, where she is currently reading a book; _Frankenstein_ , from the cover. Kat must have finished it. She’s been on the same page for the past ten minutes or so, which is probably not a good sign.

Anne thought putting something on the telly would get her attention, and she figured _Countdown_ would be perfect for Cathy. Anna said something about her writing a book, which is cool, Boleyn supposes, but it means she would like scholarly stuff, right? A little bit of brain exercise is right up her alley, and a great way to distract her from her crippling existential crisis.

Ah, but Boleyn’s not relying on that alone. The war is on two fronts; _Countdown_ on one side, Anne’s bombardment of non sequiturs on the other. Surely one of them would get Parr to snap out of it.

“I saw a ghost bear kill someone, once.”

“Really?” Parr responds, flatly.

“Yeah. Poor bugger died of shock. I had that happen, once – not the death part, thankfully, but someone tried to stab me and fainted when he couldn’t.”

“Hm.”

No reaction at all! Even Anna, famously calm and collected, would ask what the fuck she was on about! Not even a slightly raised brow from Cathy Parr!

Alright, switch to the other side. “The conundrum’s coming up soon. You’ve got a nine-letter made into other words, and you have to figure out what that long word is.”

“Right.” She looks up very briefly at the screen – CENTJODIE. “ _Dejection_.” Back down.

She’s right.

Shit.

Anne’s struggling for ideas, here. She doesn’t want to bring out the big guns and mention any of the people she saw imprisoned in the Tower – Elizabeth, Thomas, or Jane Grey. Any of them would make Parr’s already not-great mood worse. She can talk the talk, but can’t put it into practice without unintentionally hurting people.

“Why did I not die?”

 _Oh,_ _fuck_.

“More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink into forgetfulness and rest?” Parr goes on, her eyes solely focused on the book. “Death snatches away many blooming children, the only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms and the decay of the tomb? Of what materials was I made, that I could thus resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually renewed the torture?”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Anne says in response. She doesn’t know how to deal with this. She worked through her own stuff, yeah, but that was a long and painful process that now means she is now the closest and furthest away from a modern human being; she knows all the slang, but she’s kind of forgotten what normal mortal concerns are.

“Alright,” Boleyn begins. She’s got to try. “Well, first off, you _did_ die, Elizabeth was really upset about it – shit, um, forget that last bit, I’ll start again. You died, and that’s bad, but also you can’t change that. Like, with your hand. It came off, you can’t change that part, but it’s back on again. I don’t know why the hand thing is a big deal, but it is to you, so, like, your feelings are valid, but you can’t stay in one emotional place forever. Do you… get that?”

Parr stares blankly. Then, holds up her book so Anne can see the page. Cathy’s speech is printed there, in black and white.

She wasn’t in the middle of a particularly Shakespearean breakdown. She was quoting _Frankenstein_.

“Oh.”

“Thanks for the effort, Anne.”

She sounds like she means it. Anne will take that as a win. It’s all she’s got.

-

Anna is in the study, doing something that might just be productive.

She’s learnt enough about video sharing platforms (regrettably, youtube tutorials on how to use youtube are kind of self-defeating) to successfully find episodes of London Beyond the Veil. The showrunners or whoever is representing them simply cannot take a hint; Now it’s something _else_ in the East End that’s popped up, the ghost of a mugging victim, apparently (Anna is pretty sure she knows who it is). She has reasoned that, maybe, she should see why a house is so bloody important to their format.

Now, Anna _does_ believe in ghosts, despite her saying otherwise. Considering who she lives with, she’d be stupid not to.

With that in mind, these people are absolutely fucking insane.

“There we are,” One of the presenters says, setting down the last toy and completing the circle of mildly disturbing dolls. “You got your little light thingamabob ready?”

“It’s an EMF reader,” the other replies, testily. “And, yes, everything is set up.”

“Okay. Anything yet?”

“You can’t rush this sort of thing. One of the haunted dolls has to wake up first, and trigger the others.”

The first presenter scoffs. “Sure.”

There is a pause as they wait.

“Maybe I should set up a tea party for them. Dolls like tea parties, right? Give them each their own little teacup – do we have something useful like that in all this junk?”

Anna sighs as the second presenter lambasts the first for calling their instruments ‘junk’, while the latter mocks the former for believing in haunted dolls in the first place. She pauses the video, and exits out. She honestly can’t fathom why these two are so popular. She’ll turn them down again once she’s checked on Parr and Anne.

From a guess, the situation isn’t good.

Parr is nowhere to be seen. Anne’s lying face-down on the sofa, one arm hanging off the side, when Anna walks into the living area. Boleyn mumbles something unintelligible at the sound of the study door opening.

“Am I allowed to hear what you’re saying, or is this a private thing between yourself the sofa cushions?” Anna asks.

Anne props herself up on her elbows, far more dramatically than she really needs to. “I _said_ , I’ve failed. Cathy’s too good at word games for my plan to work.”

“Well, yeah. She re-learned English in, like, three weeks. We use her notes all the time.”

“I didn’t know that!”

“Where is she now? Is she alright?”

Anne sighs. “She’s…stable, I think. Upstairs. She left her book down here – if you’re going up, _don’t_ take it to her. Mr. Frankenstein is a bad influence.”

“Noted. Are _you_ doing okay?”

“Me? Yeah, I’m fine, thanks for asking. Just feeling a bit of… dejection. Good word, that. Nine letters.”

Weird phrasing, Anna thinks, before going up the stairs to Parr’s room.

The door is open, an invitation, but Anna knocks anyway.

“Come in.”

Parr doesn’t look up as Anna enters. She’s too busy staring at her hands again. Anna did that a bit, too, when she first came back. There wasn’t much else she could do, apart from fiddling with things she didn’t understand. Bit strange Parr’s doing it now, though. Maybe she was just sort of… glossing over it, before, and now she has to face it properly.

“What purpose does this serve?” Parr asks no-one in particular. “Is it merely a tool? A vessel?”

“What is?”

She points to herself. “This.”

Oh. Oh, Cathy, no.

“It’s a body,” Anna responds. “Lots of people have them.”

“But why is it like this? Why is it cold? Why does it feel so strange?”

“I don’t know. Some things you never understand.” In an attempt to bring Parr’s mind some peace, Anna places a hand on her shoulder. “Listen, Parr. A _nyone_ can pull off their own arm if they try hard enough.”

Silence.

“Is that meant to be comforting, or motivational?” Parr questions.

“…Comforting.” Another awkward pause. “I get the feeling it didn’t work. But, it is true. Anne pulled off _her_ arm yesterday just to see if she could. _I_ probably could, if I wanted to, but I haven’t had four-hundred-and-something years to decide that it’s a good idea.”

Parr laughs. There’s no joy in it, just anxiety.

“I couldn’t imagine it. That first week with Kat, and her head; I didn’t want to process how it must feel to have parts of you just _come off_. I coped by telling myself it wouldn’t happen to me, it couldn’t. Even after the…” Parr drags a finger along her throat, “I told myself I was still whole. And then, I wasn’t.”

Anna hums in thought. So it _is_ like that. “How do you think I felt when I woke up, all alone, after I died?”

“I don’t know,” Parr replies, “but it would be bold of me to assume you were scared.”

“You’re right. I was terrified.”

Anna sits down on the bed, and tells all.

When her marriage to Henry ended, she was heartbroken. Not because she _liked_ that bearded potato man, _God_ no, but because all the blame for the marriage’s failure was unfairly placed on her. She wasn’t as pretty as she was meant to be, she wasn’t a virgin, she wasn’t this and she wasn’t that, and everything she actually _was_ didn’t matter. A perfectly normal-looking woman became hideous, repulsive, not because of any physical change, but because the king said so.

She knew it was all lies, realistically. She knew her former husband’s accusations came from two places – personal insecurity, and political concern. The properties and the generous allowance helped soften the blow, too. Nevertheless, no matter how many years went by, no matter how closely she paid attention to her clothes and her hair and everything, there was always that little voice in her mind wondering _what if they were right_?

She fought that voice until her dying day. No matter what it said, she told herself that she knew who she was. Anna of House von der Mark, Daughter of Cleves, a kind and generous mistress, and the only thing wrong with her was the disease that was killing her.

Then, she woke up here, and suddenly none of that was true. She looked different. She looked _dead_. Anna didn’t know how to deal with it, and there was no-one to talk to, no-one who might be able to explain what was going on. She hid herself away, begging God for forgiveness for whatever she did to deserve this, unable to look at herself – not her portrait, and not her reflection.

“It got better after you showed up,” Anna says. “It sort of gave me an idea of what was happening, but it didn’t explain…” she makes a sweeping gesture towards herself. “I’ve been thinking of this as like a dress or a bracelet or something – it didn’t fit quite right at first, but I’ve grown into it. I can look in the mirror now, and I can think to myself ‘that’s _my_ reflection, that’s _me_ ’. Can you do that?”

Parr, who has been listening carefully up until this point (though she still hasn’t looked Anna in the eye), nods.

“So, is it just because your body did something you didn’t expect it to?”

Parr pauses. “Don’t know, but that’s part of it.”

“Well, that’s your next job while you’re busy with your introspection. When you figure it out, you are going to tell us, aren’t you?”

“I will.”

“Good, because you’re now the last remaining member of the Not-Telling-People-Things Club.”

There is the twitch on a smirk on Parr’s face, just for a second. “I’ll have to change that, won’t I?”

Anna returns the smile.

-

Kat is having a pretty good day.

Jane liked the surprise she’d planned, and actually smiled without looking sad or nervous. She made a decision about her own body (way overdue). She’s gone to the park, and seen _three_ dogs, which she sees as the definitive piece of evidence to confirm they are not in Purgatory. Dogs don’t need to answer for their sins, they don’t have any.

If she’s honest, it was never going to be _great_ day, because she knows people she cares about aren’t doing that well.

It came as kind of a shock to Kat, when Nan had come downstairs to tell her Cathy was panicking and she didn’t know what to do. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t Cathy – Cathy kept her cool when Jane took Kat’s head off with a chair, Cathy reacted to a slit throat with annoyance more than anything else, and that first day, when Anna collapsed in shock at the sight of her, Cathy helped both of them even when she was obviously horrified.

But, there isn’t much she can do about it. Even if Cathy were coherent (which she wasn’t, last time Kat checked), she doesn’t talk about her problems. She _thinks_ them, Kat is sure, because that’s what Cathy does, but it would be so much easier if she could explain what part about the whole thing is still causing her grief. Is it lingering trauma from something? The fear of falling apart, physically and emotionally? Nan said she would sort it out, and Kat should go out, she had a hair appointment, after all. She trusts Nan to at least hold the fort, but Kat isn’t sure that the emotions of others is her strong suit.

When they get back (Catalina has joined them, after her shift finished – which is a form of undergarment _and_ a measurement of time, now), Anna is sitting with Anne, and Cathy is nowhere to be seen. Nan seems to be telling a story.

“So, the King of France drops his pants, and the French shout, ‘Vive la France!’. The king of Spain drops his, and the Spanish shout ‘Viva España!’. The King of England goes last, and when all is revealed, everyone goes totally silent. Then, the English shout, ‘God Save the Queen!’.”

Anna chuckles, but stops as soon as she sees the other members of Anne’s audience. Jane looks bemused, and Catalina’s face is completely blank. Kat thinks it’s actually pretty funny, but she’s not sure if she should laugh, given the company she’s in.

“Right,” Anna begins, falteringly. “Um, I have a couple of things I need help with. Kat – are you alright to help Parr with something? She’s fine, by the way, I talked with her earlier.”

“Uh, sure.”

“Great, because Anne can’t remember how she got through it, so you’re the next best thing, if you, um, get what I mean.”

Ah. Okay, _now_ she knows what’s going on. “I do. I’ll go talk to her.”

As she’s heading out, she can hear Anna asking Catalina if she’s still fluent in Latin, because it’s important for some reason? Each in their own place, Kat supposes.

“Cathy? Can I come in?”

“Of course, Kat.”

Oh, already this is a massive improvement over yesterday. She’s not reduced to half-finished words, whimpering and ‘hand’.

Cathy looks at her in the eye, and smiles – again, fantastic, even if it’s forced. “I like your hair.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Anna sent you up here, did she?”

“She definitely did. You’re looking for advice on extremities coming off when they’re not supposed to, yeah?”

“There aren’t many people I can ask. Anne tries, but she doesn’t really see the issue.”

“Yeah.” She loves Nan, but she’s on a different wavelength when it comes to how bodies are meant to work. “What part do you need help with?”

“Well, let’s start with the obvious, it shouldn’t come off.”

“That part’s easy – ooh, actually, maybe not. People are more likely to pull on your hand than your head. I saw these things in Tesco that are for people with bad wrists, but maybe a bracelet would be more fashionable…”

“Your scarf helps, then?”

Kat rubs the soft, silky fabric between her fingers. “I don’t know if it helps keep my head on _literally_ , but it makes me feel… safer.”

It would be a lie if she said the faded scarring around her neck didn’t bother her at all. She’s been told time and time again that what happened wasn’t her fault, and she almost believes them, but it still makes her feel guilty. Ashamed.

She did the right thing. She told the truth. She died for it. She _knows_ Henry was a tyrant, and he preferred to execute his problems instead of dealing with them properly, but the progression makes her feel like she deserved it – that what happened to her was worthy of beheading.

But it’s not her fault. She just has to keep telling herself that, and soon she’ll be able to keep it out of mind, but in sight.

“I’m sorry,” says Cathy, “have I upset you?”

“No, just thinking. You said we’re _starting_ with the obvious. Does that mean there’s more?”

“I… yes.” Cathy’s eyes fall to the bandage on her right hand, and she sighs. “I hurt my wrist, towards the end of my life. I think that might be why it came off so easily.”

Oh. That’s bad. None of them had a painless end. There’s something that went down before Cathy’s death, Kat knows, because of how strongly she hates her last husband, possibly even more than she hates Henry.

“Are you linking your bad wrist to something else that happened?”

Cathy nods. She opens her mouth, but only manages to get out an “I…” before her voice fails her.

Kat waits. She sits down on the bed next to Cathy, and, after checking for her approval, takes her left hand and begins to draw patterns on the back. Cathy sighs again, but there’s less melancholy in it, Kat thinks.

“I felt powerless, then,” Cathy goes on. “I felt sick, I was in pain, and everything was falling apart around me. And, I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough, _I_ wasn’t enough, and this…” she glares at her bad wrist, “…it reminds me I’m just some _thing_ pretending to be smart, and confident, and all those things people think I am, and that I can’t escape it.”

Kat ponders this for a second. That applies to all of them, doesn’t it? They all have trouble with escaping, or living up to, their reputation. And whether it’s detachable limbs, or breathing issues, or… actually, no, Catalina’s fine now (at least for the moment) it’s not quite as clean of a slate as Kat considered it to be.

“Am _I_ a thing, Cathy?” she asks.

Cathy seems mildly panicked at what she’s implied. “Do you think you are?”

Pause. “I guess everyone is a thing, if you get down to it, but I consider myself ‘differently human’.”

“Hm.”

“I think you’re better than you think you are, Cath. I think _I’m_ better than I think I am. I _also_ think we’ve come to the same realisation at different points, but it will take us both a bit more time to really believe it.”

“…Yeah. Anna too, maybe.”

Kat immediately sits up straight. “Sorry, what was that?”

“Anna told me she had some trouble at first, too. I think everyone but Anne did, really.”

“I knew it! Right, I need to talk with her – and you can can come, too. Don’t think you’re getting out of a group hug that easily.”

She tugs on Parr’s arm to pull her to her feet – it doesn’t detach, thankfully – and they walk downstairs hand in hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually like Buzzfeed Unsolved, for the record.  
> Notes [here](https://shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com/post/637603311312420864/historical-references-in-what-are-you-going-to-do).


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LATIN IS A LANGUAGE  
> AS DEAD AS DEAD CAN BE  
> IT KILLED THE ANCIENT ROMANS  
> AND NOW IT'S KILLING ME

It’s all very strange, Parr thinks.

It is night. The house is silent. She stares up at the bedroom ceiling, simply pondering. Normally, this would be a bad idea, but given all that’s happened recently, she has to practice facing things instead of pretending they are not a problem.

Everything about their situation is blatantly ridiculous, of course. Even if they weren’t all queens of England at one point or another, let alone sharing the same king, they are casually defying all laws of medicine and having a surprisingly good time doing so. It’s the latter point that interests her, really – the fact that they are reasonably content with their situation. She supposes that all of their lives had some sort of tragic end (except possibly Anna, but having your own body devour itself from the inside is still pretty awful). Having their existence, however odd, continue on means that end is no longer what strictly defines them.

(Is there someone in the living area? There’s a bit of noise coming from down there.)

Catalina is not alone. Anne has someone to properly listen. Jane does not need to stay silent. Anna is no longer in the shadow of her reputation, and Katherine has found an independence in death that she never had in life.

As for Parr… well, she isn’t quite sure. There might be a little bit from each of them in her, too. There is a bond that connects these very different women, and it isn’t just their mutual ex or their condition.

Like she said, it’s all very strange. But certainly not bad.

Then, her god-mother’s voice, loud and clear, cuts through the stillness in the air.

“What do you think you -”

And it stops.

Parr rips the bed covers away and rushes downstairs. There is a clunk and a yelp from an unfamiliar voice as she rounds the corner.

Catalina is slightly dishevelled, but unharmed, thank goodness. She wields a rusted metal pipe, with only some indication of where it came from.

That indication comes from three other people down here she does not recognise, all masked. One is on the ground, groaning, and is presumably the one who just cried out (this one and the pipe must have connected at some point). Another has something black in their hand, and is alternating between pointing it at de Aragon and the newcomer Catherine. They seem the most confident.

The third stops what they’re doing, stiff as a board, as soon as Parr enters.

“You.”

Parr blinks. “Me?”

The invader stumbles back, dropping their own bit of metal. Is that an iron crow? No, it’s called something different now. “Shit, we need to go. Get out! _Get out_!” With each word from their mouth, their voice rises in pitch.

Their voice.

Oh, _now_ Parr remembers.

“You’re the one who tried to rob me, aren’t you?”

But they aren’t listening. They’re trying to escape. Taking advantage of the clear path they have, the thief tries the door, putting the weight of their body behind each pull to no avail.

The thief with the black object glances back only briefly. “Stop mucking about and help, you idiot! Get their stuff while I’ve got them pinned down!”

“Won’t do anything, _you idiot_. That thing -” The frightened burglar points accusingly at Parr - “is _dead_! I killed her!”

“What are you talking about? Are you mad?!”

“ _I_ was.” She is now, in fact. Being called a _thing_ actually hurts. “Couldn’t speak for ages. Very irritating.”

“Y’see?! She’s dead! _She’s dead_! She’s come for me!” The thief screams.

“Shut it!” Their friend bellows. “Do you want to wake the whole bloody street with your carrying on?!”

Well, one, Parr isn’t sure anyone can hear them, given how easily they got in. Two, the robber probably has bigger concerns, even if neither Catherine _actually_ wants them dead.

“What did you _do_?” Catalina questions her god-daughter, incredulous.

“We revoked their knife privileges. You know that one that doesn’t fit in the piece of wood with the slits? It only seemed fair that we took it, given what happened.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Hm. I certainly approve of your restraint.”

“ _Stop nattering, or I blow your fucking head off!_ ”

“Wh’s g’ng ‘n?”

Speaking of heads…

It’s slurred and sleepy, but it’s definitely Anne. Anne, who might be too out of it to take in the precarious situation. Anne, who is known for making unorthodox decisions.

Anne, whose head is held close to her chest, notably detached, because _of course it is_.

Boleyn frowns, eyes still unfocused. “Hey, that’s a gun! You can’t have that, it’s illegal!”

“What flawless priorities you have!” Catalina replies.

Now there are _two_ robbers trying to get the door open. The gunman has significantly more success; he turns the catch in the door handle, and they disappear into the cold, dark night.

Lowering her stolen weapon, Catalina approaches the last remaining home invader. They are sitting up, but still hunched over in pain, a hand over their eyes and the other clutching their chest.

“I think you broke something,” they whine.

“My deepest apologies, but you did handle me quite roughly.”

“…Yeah, alright, fair cop.”

While they’re distracted, Parr silently and furiously gestures to Anne – _put your head back on!_ \- before she taking the opportunity to assess the damage.

“Now that _is_ interesting,” she mutters.

They have come through one of the ground floor windows, off to one side and just slightly out of Parr’s original line of sight. As a result, she can see London, instead of the slightly off meadow, out of that particular window frame. Perhaps the vista was meant to keep them calm when they first got here – she would have certainly have been deeply confused if a modern city was the first sight she was greeted with.

“Excuse me, burglar. Did you see anything unusual when you were breaking our window in order to steal our possessions?”

The thief seems surprised, possibly because of the frankness of Parr’s question. “I… did find it funny that all of your windows were boarded up. As far as I knew, this place was abandoned, but Tom said he saw some posh birds coming and going. That meant two things to him – either someone was living there and didn’t want anyone to know, of there was something dodgy going on we might be able to get into.”

“‘Posh birds’ means ‘upper-class women’,” Boleyn adds. “I think that might be us. And, ‘dodgy’ is something suspicious.”

In that case, both theories are right, Parr thinks. “Thank you for your assistance. Now, get out, and tell no-one what you found.”

The brigand scrambles to their feet, wincing as they do, and hurries out of the door. Catalina closes it behind them (remembering to turn the latch) and faces the mess their uninvited guests had caused.

“I heard a noise while I was in the study,” she explains to whoever is listening. “A simple crunch, and something light falling to the floor.” She nods towards the broken glass, the light from the street lamps outside making it glitter. It’s strangely pretty. “I went out to investigate, and, well, they attempted to silence me.”

“They never seem to manage that, do they?”

They all turn. Jane has made her way downstairs, apparently helped along by Katherine, who is just slightly behind her. Parr is genuinely surprised Seymour managed to do it so quietly.

“Anna is not with you?” Catalina asks.

“She was difficult to wake. You could say… she sleeps… like the dead.”

Jane’s voice, thin and halting, makes it sound like the pun is causing her physical pain to say aloud. Not that Boleyn seems to care. She’s grinning like a madwoman, absolutely thrilled Jane made – God be praised – a joke. Kat seems chuffed, too, though Parr isn’t quite sure why.

“She’s fine, though,” Kat adds. “She was groaning and such. She’ll be down soon, I think.” She looks to the broken window, and her smile fades. “Wow. Weird.”

“I know,” Parr replies. It will have to be covered, of course, but what will appear once it is? The meadow, or whatever is used to cover it, as it should?

“We’ll have to clean this up,” Jane says, wearily. “I’ll get some shoes on – I have no desire to feel shattered glass beneath my feet.”

Catalina, who is fully dressed (for the current time, anyway) steps forward. “I will start. There is a brush and pan in the cupboard, correct?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly ask you to -”

“You are not asking, Jane. I am choosing. Regardless, we are all of equal rank, now.”

“Why were you down here, anyway?” Boleyn asks, crossing her arms.

“There is something I have been introduced to that is vexing me. Their pronunciation is atrocious – worse than Arthur’s.” Catalina, pauses, frowns. “I do not suppose any of you learned Latin, did you?”

Parr sighs deeply.

-

The window is secured, by bending crooked nails back into shape and hammering the removed board back into place with a pipe. Parr has at least one question answered – there is nothing but the wooden board visible on the other side.

Now, upon Catalina’s (originally Anna’s) request, Catherine and the others, including the now-present Anna (though only just – she’s far more interested in using Kat’s shoulder as a pillow) turn their attention to a _different_ haunted house.

Actually, Parr’s not actually sure if it’s a _house_ these people, the ones responsible for _London Beyond the Veil_ , are in. There is some furniture that may have been dragged in rather than placed, and they are relying on their own torches rather than any light from the place itself. Whichever one is true, their filming location is covered in filth to a point where Parr wrinkles her nose at the mere sight. There’s only one bit that is 'vexing' de Aragon (though all of the episode disquiets her), and that is that part where the hosts put a raw, store-bought chicken on the ground, draw a circle around it, and start reciting Latin from a book _really badly._

Honestly? Fair enough.

“I hope you know everything about this is ridiculous.”

Even former ghost Boleyn is astounded. “I definitely know. I mean, at least my lot _pretended_ to respect me. The audacity of these people… you don’t stand on a roof during a thunderstorm and shout ‘God is a bastard’, and yet they think this is fine?”

“Don’t tempt fate,” Jane quietly pleads.

Parr shakes her head. The nonsense playing out in front of her isn’t tempting fate, this is strictly performative. Really? A raw, plucked chicken? Apparently the producers had told these two idiots a _whole_ dead hen would be ‘too much’, and yet they are still acting like this is all very serious and legitimate.

“Their book is what interests me,” Catalina explains. “There is a point where they focus on it for a moment, and you can make out just a fragment of it. Now, it is _this_ button, is it not?”

The playback stops. The close-up is completely on the book; a mottled, fleshy sort of colour on the inside and the outside, stained and tattered. Parts of the cover are flaking off from simply being touched, but Parr can just spot some handwritten text on the edge of one page.

 _nrici_ _Octavo_

 _Octavo_. An eighth? Why would they –

_An eighth._

“Oh, _please_ , no.”

“That was my reaction,” says Catalina.

If what Parr dreads turns out to be true, it explains so much. Why they have approximations of a working human body, instead of the real thing, why they woke up with no idea how they got here or what they were meant to do.

“What? What’s going on?” Jane asks. “Did you find something bad?”

“It might not be… I might be wrong. I would _love_ to be wrong. Play it again, please, from the beginning of the Latin,” Parr requests.

Catalina shifts from one foot to the other. “Ah, right. Boleyn? How do I do that?”

“How have you not figured that out by now?”

“I have been pressing the button to make the whole thing repeat. I have watched it twelve times, now.”

“...Oh, sweetheart.”

Anne comes to the rescue, here. A bit of trial and error gets them to the right spot. Catherine ignores most of it, eyes shut, listening for what she saw written in the book.

“…uck-sore Hen-rye-see oct-ay-voh -”

“God almighty,” Parr whispers. “It’s so _stupid_ …!”

“I’m guessing Catalina was right, then?” Howard guesses, clearly uncertain as to how.

“ _Uxor Henrici octavo_ ,” Parr recites properly, then translates – “Wife of Henry the Eighth.”

All is silent as the implication sinks in. The people responsible for their existence _meant_ to do the ritual, but didn’t think it would _work_.

All the usually chatty Anne can muster is “Wow.”


	14. Chapter 14

Everyone is, understandably, a bit shaken by the discovery, to varying degrees.

She might be biased, but Parr thinks she’s taking this reasonably well, considering her recent panic over her hand. It’s absurd, without question, but simply existing in the manner they are is also nonsensical. Katherine or Catalina, she isn’t sure which, is probably next. Her god-mother is almost limp, resigned to the fact that this was never a _God_ -given opportunity, and Howard, too, is similarly subdued (though unlike de Aragon, Parr has no clue as to why). Jane has her jaw clenched, glaring at nothing, and von Kleve just looks lost, unmoored.

And Anne? Catherine is never sure what Anne is thinking at any given time. Given how quiet she is, though, something is up.

Parr doesn’t know how long they’ve been sitting in silence. She doesn’t want to be the one to break it, for fear of saying something wrong. But, really, what _can_ you say to something like this?

“So, it’s all a joke, then?”

It’s Howard. She sounds so very small and tired when she says it, so much so that Parr wants nothing more than to wrap her up in a hug or a warm blanket or something. More to the point, she sounds like she _expected_ this outcome to some extent.

“It was all just for… shock value,” she continues, “just so people would watch. Not because they wanted to bring back anyone.”

Anna shakes her head slowly. “I am not a joke, or an oddity. I refuse to be reduced to that again.”

Jane nods in agreement, but doesn’t speak.

The oppressive quiet falls on them once more. At least Catherine kind of understands, now, and she’s a bit upset that she didn’t catch on immediately. For most of Kat’s life, she was a tool for other people to get what they wanted. The biggest event in Anna’s life was being vilified to save Henry some embarrassment. Parr knew of the whispers about them both, but they are so different from those she knows now that she didn’t automatically make the connection.

“We should probably stop them,” Anne says.

Catalina adjusts her position, head leaning on her hand, completely unsurprised by this suggestion. “How?”

“I don’t know them well enough to decide what’s more devastating. But, if they casually sort-of-resurrect six people by accident, who knows what else they’re gonna do for clicks and giggles? They might muck something up badly enough that people actually get hurt.”

“A surprisingly reasonable line of thinking from you. You have ideas, then?”

“Well, one of them is just murder, which is bad –”

“No, sorry, go back,” Kat interrupts. “You don’t mind it at all? That the whole reason we’re here is because of a publicity stunt?”

Boleyn frowns. “Well, I think they were absolute fucking muppets for even _considering_ that it might be a good idea, and I feel like they’re gonna make further bad decisions if they don’t get a wake-up call. But, I’ve already said that I don’t care how I came back. That hasn’t changed. Doesn’t matter what they _meant_ for it to be, all that matters is the result – which, in this case, I approve of.”

“I failed to stop abuses of power in life. I will attempt to fix some in death,” Catalina adds, before facing Boleyn. “I am intrigued that you are now concerned about the common good."

“Well, not like I have to worry about keeping my position, eh? Look how that turned out.”

Howard wraps her arms around her chest, looking away. Anna catches her eye, raises a brow in a silent question. Kat nods ever-so-slightly. von Kleve puts an arm around her shoulder, and some of the tension in Katherine’s (and Parr’s) posture eases as Howard leans into the touch.

“What’s one of your non-murderous ideas, then?” Parr asks Boleyn.

“Ah. Well. It’s uh, something that I think everyone needs to say ‘yes’ to, but it would give us time to sort of… plan. If that makes any sense. Let me just explain…”

-

Anna steeples her fingers from her vaunted position on the swivel chair.

“They will pay us for the use of the space,” she tells Parr, “even if we don’t go ahead with Anne’s idea. None of us have any source of income, and professions require things like ‘proof of identity’ to get into. The money would be good, right?”

Parr sighs, and nods.They’ll run out of antique books eventually. “You didn’t get my god-mother to help you compose the email?”

“She’s going to help me with a different part, so she’s sitting this one out. Besides, _you’re_ the writer.”

“I wasn’t much good.”

“Lies and slander. You could have probably eased up on the guilt complex a bit, but it was certainly engaging.”

Anna logs into her account (AvonKleve1515), only to find (to Parr’s great consternation) she has received an email from RickyJ_8279, titled _Regarding Information Request_.

It reads:

_Greetings and good health to you, Your Majesties (though how many queens I write to I am still unsure),_

_We had an agreement that I would contact you should I remember, or otherwise uncover, any information regarding my (unperformed) ritual, and I hope I can bring you some measure of satisfaction by announcing that there is something that may be relevant. However, this lowly alchemist must request that you temper your expectations, as my potential lead could be a dead end (L.O.L.)._

“Wow,” Anna deadpans, “the fake laugh carries across in text, too.”

_I do recall that, on occasion, I had apprentices assisting me in some capacity, some as apprentice magicians, some who obfuscated their true vocation due to laws at the time. While I am almost entirely certain that all of these individuals have long since passed from this world, many of them may have copied certain sections of my grimoire, which I allowed if I was satisfied with their progression and work ethic._

_It is possible, though I regret I cannot confirm the legitimacy of my theory, that one of these apprentices copied out the particular section of my grimoire that is of import to Your Majesties and your possible companions. As my last apprentice left my service in the reign of Queen Anne Stuart (that is, at some time in the early 1700s), there is a slim but not impossible chance that one or more of these books still exist and have found their way into another’s hands. If this is so, I offer my humble and abject apologies for the shameless, neglectful behaviour of those who were once under my tutelage, and for their disregard (unintended or otherwise) for Your Majesties’ desires._

_If my endeavour unearths any new clues to the source of this unforeseen event, I shall contact you again in this manner._

_Faithfully,_

_Richard Jones, Oxford_

“Sounds like he’s trying to get out of trouble, again,” Parr comments. “It’s interesting that he claims he doesn’t know how many of us there are. I thought Henry was famous for the amount of wives he had.”

“There could be any number of reasons. By which system are you measuring the amount of wives? The amount the Catholic Church says he had? The ones that weren’t annulled? Any woman he laid with… actually, it can’t be that one, _I’m_ here.”

Parr knows exactly what Anna’s alluding to. “Let’s say plausible deniability for now. We have something else to write. You didn’t actually say ‘no’ the third time, did you?”

“You know something else came up.”

Catherine presses ‘Compose Email’ and begins to write.

_To whom it may concern,_

_Regarding your previous emails and your continued requests, I have decided to negotiate with you concerning the use of my property in the web series_ London Beyond the Veil _. Please send through any available appointment times, so we can resolve this matter once and for all._

_Anna von Kleve_

-

The email offering to work out a deal is accepted, even if the reply comes across as self-contradicting at times – clearly, like with the original, more than one person was involved in its writing. Thus, Anna is here, with the representative, and in the little room across the way is a woman in a suit so sharp it could cut someone (and the glare she gave von Kleve implies the wearer _wants_ to) and the former Spanish Ambassador to England.

Anna’s sudden interest in the series and its particulars is received warmly by the representative, who probably should know better, and is happily giving their guest a little tour around the studios. There’s the small set where the presenters do their retrospective, decorated with pictures and newspaper articles, the computers where the editing is done, and – frankly, the only thing Anna is interested in seeing – the props department.

“We share this room with a number of other shows, so it’s a bit hotchpotch,” they say.

Anna stares at the collections of furniture, electrical appliances, and several unsettling busts on the shelves around her, and narrows her eyes at a skeleton suspended by wires. “Some of zhe zhings in zhe show are simple props? I had vondered how you managed to find so many haunted dolls…”

The representative shifts uncomfortably. “Well, sometimes you need to help things along. The producers are very keen on making an engaging and exciting show, you know. Your property has a lot of potential for a very interesting episode.”

“If it did not, I vould not be here. I remember, vone of my tenants showed an episode wiz a book and a… um, _huhn_. Hen. I know zhe latter vas eaten at zhe end of zhe episode, but is zhe former here?”

“Oh! Yes, one of the production assistants bought it for a different show, but then they looked at what was inside! Oh, it was just so _perfect_! We were so excited!"

They rush over to one of the many boxes along the walls, and pull out a familiar leather book that is distinctly worse for wear. The representative’s face drops.

“I had no idea they were so rough with it.”

Anna holds out a hand. “May I? I promise to be very careful.”

There is a brief moment of hesitation from the representative before they hand it over. Anna manipulates it with the tips of her fingers, ever-so-gently opening the cover. Most of the page beneath is stained by neglect, but the ones with the ritual are still surprisingly legible. The handwritten title to this section is ‘Raising the Dead’, with no specifics in English as to who the dead are meant to be.

“Vage, aber richtig. Höchstwahrscheinlich einen lehrling,” she mutters, before speaking at a normal volume. “Zhe Latin, do you know vhat it says?”

“Erm, no. I’m afraid not many people speak it, these days. Except Catholic priests, of course, but, um, they’re not fans of our work.”

“Vhere vas it found?”

“Oh, a charity shop, I think. You know how it is – a family member dies, and after everything else is taken by the relatives, the rest gets donated to help the less fortunate. Must have been on somebody’s granny’s shelf for some time.”

Anna hums, though it is plainly not a content noise. She flicks through a few more pages, before closing the book and returning it to the representative. “Very interesting. My zhanks. Ve should be getting back, don’t you zhink? I must see how _my_ representative is faring.”

“Ah, well, yes, the boss can be a bit rough, that why I wanted to spare you the worst…”

As it happens, it is said boss who wears an expression of defeat when they re-enter. Catalina’s remains the same, though there is a glint in her eyes that wasn’t present before.

“I love diplomacy.”

-

It is not Anna who receives an email three days later. It is Katherine, and it is only three words.

_Can we talk?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now plotting the climax. How insane should it be?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions of suicide.

The sender of the mysterious email – who is not all that mysterious themselves – is already at the cafe when Kat and Parr arrive. Their glasses sit on the quaint little table they’ve chosen, along with a battered notebook, a half-empty mug, and their owner’s rapidly tapping fingers.

The tapping stops when the representative sees Parr and Kat approaching. They flash a quick smile to Kat, which becomes questioning when they look to the other Catherine.

“I’m here for support,” she says, answering their silent enquiry. “I know you’re sending emails under our landlady’s nose, Kat told me.”

“Right. Okay. That’s fine, um, thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I felt like some things are better said face-to-face, so they’re not taken the wrong way. Do you want a coffee, or anything?”

Kat’s frown has become slowly more pronounced the more the representative talks. “Are you alright? You seem a bit nervous. Is it your boss?”

“No, no – ah, but it is sort of to do with my job. I may be reading too much into it, seeing connections where there aren’t any – but, when your landlady came around to talk about an episode the other day, I noticed a couple of things. Well, she _made_ me notice, sort of. Um. How long have you known her?”

“A very long time,” Parr replies.

“I’ve known her since she came over from Germany,” Kat affirms.

“Are you _sure_ she’s German, though? What about her accent? Only, a couple of times she slipped up, pronounced a ‘w’ or something like that.”

“Are you going to report this to your superiors?” The representative shakes their head. “You swear?” Nod. “She is one hundred percent German, _and_ can speak English without an accent. She finds it useful to be underestimated, especially with business dealings.”

“Ah.”

The representative looks down at the reflection in their coffee. This response does not seem to ease their uncertainty in any way – why? Is it because they feel threatened by Anna? She masks her emotions well, but not aggressively, not in a frightening way. Perhaps it’s –

“I translated the Latin.”

– Something else. There it is.

The representative directs their attention to Kat, who also clearly doesn’t like where this is going. “You remember that episode I sent you? Remember the book? The Latin is different to what the English implies. I didn’t think to check until Ms von Kleve brought it up.”

Parr frowns. “You’re familiar with Latin?”

“Oh, no.” Figures. No-one is, these days. “No, I ran it through Google Translate. A lot of it’s come out as gibberish, but there’s this bit about the ‘wife’ of the ‘eighth Henry’, and one part mentions a ‘queen’. What’s the immediate thought there? Well, your A levels, of course. Divorced, Beheaded, Died, Divorced, Beheaded, Survived.”

With every word of the rhyme, Parr feels her mood sour further. She hates that bloody thing. They all do, being reduced to their worst moments or oversimplified accounts, becoming mere characters in a play. It made all of their achievements in life, the things that _they_ held dear, worthless in favour of what a certain individual did to them.

Parr takes a breath in an attempt to calm herself. It’s hardly the representative’s fault for being taught that. In a steady voice, she asks, “What do you think it means?”

The representative frowns, their expression changing from anxiety to suspicion. “I think it means that the spell had a specific target, or targets, other than whatever was in the circle. Are you alright?”

“Fine. I just don’t like being reminded of my history… A levels.” Whatever A levels are. Girls can attend school now, to her and her god-mother’s great satisfaction, so she should know what they are.

“It’s pretty horrible, isn’t it?”

Both of them turn to look at Howard, who isn’t _quite_ angry yet, but the pursed lips and burning gaze indicates she’s on her way there.

“What?”

“It’s pretty horrible to be reduced to one word in a rhyme,” Kat continues, getting faster and more frantic. “To have people get your entire life and who you were wrong, because some writer born years after the fact couldn’t possibly imagine a king being anything less than divine, even a lazy, self-absorbed monster like Henry the Eighth. Anne wasn’t a temptress, she literally said ‘I won’t bang you unless I’m queen,’ and he did the rest, ‘cause he cared more about his _legacy_ than his wife of twenty years, and Anna _wasn’t_ ugly, you know who _wasn’t_ executed for the marriage’s failure? _The painter_ , and –”

“Kat, that’s enough,” Parr interrupts, cold with dread. She should have spoken up sooner. The representative already knew something was wrong here, and the two of them getting oddly defensive has probably confirmed that. “I know you hated your history teacher’s opinions, I had him too, but you don’t need to take it out on anyone else.”

For their part, the representative’s mouth is open in shock at Katherine’s outburst. Parr’s attempt to save the situation may not have registered.

“You said you’ve known Ms. von Kleve since she came over from Germany, right? What year was that?”

“Two years ago,” Howard replies. An answer, but not to the question asked.

“Where did you live before your current address?”

“Lambeth.”

“Listen,” Parr tries to take back control, “I think you’re trying to make connections that aren’t there. It’s great that you’ve found something interesting, and we’re happy to help if we can, but we’re not here to be interrogated.”

All parties at the table fall silent, waiting for one of the others to make a move, to say something. The gentle sounds of chatter and clinking ceramic do little to ease the suspense.

The representative opens their mouth. “I’m sorry. I get a bit over-excited about this sort of thing. I mean, it would be nice, wouldn’t it? If ghosts were real. It would confirm life after death, for one thing – and, Kate, you make a good point. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could speak to slandered historical figures and get their side of the story? The thought of being able to chat with the six wives of Henry VIII… I mean, what an experience _that_ would be!”

“Yeah,” Katherine says flatly, “imagine.”

Parr continues before the representative can think about that tone of voice too much. “It’s completely fine, but you were getting a bit intense. Personally, given some of the experiences I’ve had as of late, I’m inclined to agree with you about ghosts.” A rehearsed pause. “I was thinking, actually, since you seem to know more about our house than anyone in it...”

-

It was supposed to be a nice chat over coffee. Instead, their clandestine meeting was the most emotionally draining thing either of them had experienced since dying. So much so, that when the latter two queens come home, they can only work up the energy to be _mildly_ panicked that there’s a jug full of blood on the kitchen table.

“It is not real.”

Catalina is sitting next to Jane on the sofa, looking up from her book – _4:50 from Paddington_ . Jane, on the other hand, has her nose still buried in the far cheaper version of _Gray’s Anatomy_ they bought to replace the original.

“How do you know?” Parr asks.

“It smells like mint, which I think is the biggest indicator. Boleyn thought it might be useful. How was your interview?”

Howard shifts uncomfortably. “Well, the good news is that Cathy’s a good liar.”

“It was flattery, mostly. You have to agree with them on some things, and they will think they’re on your side.”

“That… doesn’t contradict what I said.”

Now Jane starts paying attention, her concerned frown the only thing visible over the top of her book. “What happened?”

Before Parr can answer, Boleyn comes rushing down the stairs.

“Excellent, the investigators are back! Now, tell me everything. What’s the hot goss?”

Parr rattles off all the information she's learned, perhaps not with as much gravity as the events should be given. The most famous family that once lived here was one of six, a merchant, his wife and his four surviving children. The eldest son was suspected of being a witch, but the whole family died of the Great Plague before he could be tried. After that, there were only a handful of incidents in the next 350 years. A maid vanished without a trace in 1853, as did the homeowner in 1726, both suspected to have been murdered. One owner from the nineteenth century hanged himself in one of the bedrooms. The most ‘exciting’ incident occurred fairly recently, in 1909, where a woman, in a fit of madness (or perhaps haunted by the previous occupants), jumped from the upper floor window and impaled herself on a fencepost. The fence has been removed in the interim hundred years.

Boleyn’s face splits into a wide grin. “Fantastic! Well, I mean, not for all the dead people, obviously, but hey, none of them seem to be stuck here! _Now_ we have an idea of what those dizzards are expecting – we can play on their confirmation bias to freak them out.”

“I know that word,” Parr mumbles. Surely dizzard wasn’t still in the popular lexicon…

Jane snaps _Gray’s Anatomy_ shut. “I don't know that I like that implication. Where are we going to get a sufficiently sharp fencepost, and who has to get speared to scare the documentary crew into acting with discretion?”

“Well, not you, Jane. To get that done, you can just be yourself.” Seymour’s eyes flicker, trying to work out if she should take offence. Catalina looks ready to do so on her behalf as Anne turns her attention to the other two wives. “It wouldn’t have to be a real impaling, necessarily. All we have to do is get an appropriate period costume and get a lot of blood in the middle, on both sides, and they’ll go, ‘oh, that must be the lady who got fenceposted’.”

“So someone dressed as a maid will be seen as the one who disappeared,” Howard says. Anne nods eagerly – Kat’s got it. “So, who’s being who?”

“Dunno. Fencepost lady should definitely be someone. Maybe the maid, too, a costume like that should be easy enough to get. That homeowner who vanished –”

“No, he should not be represented,” Parr cuts in. She gets three odd looks and one look of understanding, from Kat. There are three men in the world that provoke such a reaction from Catherine, and two of them were dead by 1726 – though it may be a case of mistaken identity, the man has lied enough to warrant a ban on any mentions of his name.

“I do believe someone should remain as themselves,” suggests de Aragon, moving on from that awkward topic. “An apparent third party caught up in the performance would sell the deception as truth.”

“Ooh, you’re finally giving into the madness, are you? I thought you’d go for legal action, or something boring like that.”

“You of all people should know I have little faith in the courts. Even if I were to do so, there would be a great deal of unwanted attention – I have no desire to be examined or cut up again, even for the sake of science. I see a far smaller chance of that happening if your suggestion works.”

Anne’s surprise is shockingly genuine, as if she had forgot that little detail. “Oh yeah. Okay, so at least one normal person, that poor woman, the maid, maybe one or two of the plague victims…” she points to Parr. “I came up with an idea for you, actually, and it won’t keep you from playing another role. Here’s what I’m thinking – you, and the piano.”

Parr frowns. “Me? Why not Kat?”

“Put it this way, you’d be playing it one-handed.”

…Oh. _Oh_. “I see where you’re going.”

When Anna returns and adds her contributions, lists are made, roles are established, and something that is simultaneously truth and fiction begins to form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes [here](https://shalebridge-cradle.tumblr.com/post/641955337366355968/historical-references-in-what-are-you-going-to-do).  
> Genuine question, because I'm a bad judge of these things - how insane should these next few chapters be?


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for (fake) blood, body horror.

“Pretty nice for the area, isn’t it?”

The camera angles up to take in the dilapidated townhouse, striking shadows playing across its facade in the quickly-fading light. The paint and plaster is chipped, the window frames damaged, one window boarded up. There’s a narrow alley off to one side that almost certainly has had its fair share of drug deals and criminal activity over the years.

_(They had un-boarded most of the windows, save for the broken one. A completely different vista from what_ should _be outside would give the game away far too soon, after all.)_

The first presenter, the serious one, the one who at least pretends to respect the dead, huffs at the comment. “The house is one of the older ones in the city. It’s survived riots, fires, bombings.”

The second host, the joker, the one who cares more about laughs than anyone's dignity, shrugs. “I’m not judging. It’s a tough old bird, and, hey, owning a house in London is nothing to sneeze at.”

“Even one that’s haunted?”

“’Course! Drives down a price a bit. This place might _almost_ be affordable.”

The first presenter knocks, and the door swings open to reveal a perfectly-groomed woman looking like she has tired of her visitors immediately upon seeing them. Nevertheless, when she speaks, her voice is measured and polite.

“You are the investigators, then?”

“That’s us,” The first presenter says, and holds out a hand for the woman to shake. She takes it with only a fraction of a second’s hesitation, and the two hosts introduce themselves.

“My name is Catalina de Aragon,” the woman says. “I am one of the tenants here, and have been asked to explain the house’s history to you.”

“The owner isn’t around?”

“She is indisposed. Is there any problem with this?”

“No, not at all. May we come in?”

The woman, whose introduction will probably be cut for time, stands to one side. The interior is a world away from the outside – Polished marble counters, hardwood floors, interior design that wouldn’t be out of place in a luxury apartment (though something is indescribably off about it all). The only sign of life is another woman scribbling away in a book, seemingly unaware of the three strangers that have just entered.

The second presenter gives a low whistle. “I was about to say, you look a bit too posh for this place, but I stand corrected. Very nice.”

“You are too kind. A lot of work has been done here to make it… liveable. Now, shall we get to the exposition?”

The woman goes through the tale with practiced intonation and the slightest injections of emotion. She’s probably done a few speeches in her time, from the way she talks. The presenters almost seem interested as they nod along to information they already know.

“Got that. Old house, people’ve died.”

The woman acknowledges the camera for the first time. “I have some minor requests, actually. I appreciate you want to get moving, but I was not informed of whether your producer told you…”

The first presenter rolls their eyes. “Fine. We don’t want to get sued, after all.” They, too, look at the camera. “Go get some b-roll while we go over it.”

The camera meanders about the place, getting shots of the window, the study, the kitchen, anything that looks even slightly eerie. The woman can be heard speaking in the background, but that’s fine – there’ll be a voiceover or ominous music over this part, anyway.

“My requests are simple. Five of six bedrooms are open to you – the one at the end of the hall on the right is not, as I will be doing some work in there while you film. For all available rooms, I ask that whatever you move, you return to its rightful place intact.”

“The end of the hall on the right…” The second presenter pauses to think, then says, “What if –”

“No-one died in that room, no-one mysteriously vanished. The woman jumped from the _front_ window on the right, and the last bedroom on the _left_ is where that poor man ended his life. It should not affect your investigation. You can, of course, knock if you require any assistance.”

“What about her?”

“Oh, I was just leaving,” the other woman, who has never been entirely in-shot, replies evenly. “I won’t be here when you get back downstairs. Neither of us want to interfere.”

“There’s no-one else in the house?”

“Not that I know of. The other tenants have gone out drinking. I’m about to join them, I just wanted to make sure everything went smoothly.”

“Right. Good.” The camera turns around, to capture the two presenters facing each other.

“Suicide first?” Says one presenter.

“Suicide first,” the other repeats, and they ascend the stairs together. “Ooh, creaky. _Very_ spooky, eh?”

_(Once the production is out of sight, Catalina shakes her head._

“ _There is something about them that puts me ill at ease. I cannot deduce what it is.”_

_Her god-daughter nods in agreement. “Anne might know.”_

“ _I shall consider asking.”_

_Catalina goes upstairs, while Parr lock the door and enters the study to lie in wait.)_

_-_

“So, what’s the story?” The second presenter asks as they travel along the corridor, their voice bright and cheery.

“A man called John Allsopp hung himself in here after his fiancee rejected him, and he lost his position in his future father-in-law’s firm. Well, not his father-in-law, his ex-fiancee’s… you get what I mean.”

“Oof. Bit rough.”

“I believe it was the ex-fiancee than found him, actually.”

“Did she faint _dead_ away?”

The first presenter glares at the horrific pun. “She did not, actually. She claimed she did not regret her actions. Makes me wonder what sort of person she was. Or John Allsop was.”

They close the last door on the left, then open it for the camera. It looks better that way.

The best way to describe the décor in here is probably ‘ostentatious’. Almost every piece of furniture is heavy and wooden, but with fine detailing that signifies each piece’s true (high) value. A fur (faux-fur?) coat hangs artfully over the arm of a chair, next to an elaborate gold-framed mirror. The thick red curtains that adorn the windows are drawn.

“It’s a miracle this place hasn’t been robbed yet,” the second presenter breathes.

_(It isn’t.)_

The first presenter ignores them, appearing almost distressed. “Do you hear that?”

“No.” A pause. “Wait, no, I do. You weren’t just saying that?”

The microphones pick up a faint, but still recognisable sound. The groan of… something pulled taut. A rope, perhaps. The noise comes at regular intervals, as if it were being used in a pendulum.

A long silence follows as all parties in the room listen. The first presenter looks back to the camera operator almost accusingly, as if they had something to do with it.

Another creak of rope.

“I thought…” The other representative begins, but quickly cuts themselves off. The full sentence was meant to be ‘I thought we were putting the noise in during post’, but that would give the game away.

The first presenter reaches into their bag and fumbles with a spirit box, holding it up. “John Allsopp. Are you here with us? Speak to us if you are here.”

“If you are, sucks to be you,” the second presenter adds.

A death rattle is picked up loud and clear. Rasping. Gasping. The first presenter immediately chucks the spirit box back into the bag and leaves the room, quietly repeating “Nope” to themselves over and over. The other presenter looks into the camera and smirks, but from the glazed appearance of their eyes, it’s plain their heart isn’t in it.

“Box wasn’t even on,” they say.

_(With the coast clear, Jane_ _sneaks into room once the presenters have entered another, and_ _immediately looks above the door._

“ _You alright up there?”_

_Anna, in full costume with a sackcloth over her head and a noose around her neck, shakes her head slightly._

“ _I think I need help to get down,” she replies in a whisper.)_

-

The production crew has to take a bit of time to recover their screen personas for the next room. Normally, it’s _they_ who decide when they get ‘scared’, picking their moment to ‘hear a noise’ or ‘feel something touch them’.

Still, recover they do, and approach the next room of interest – the place where one of the disappearances was last seen.

“Does this one have a name, too?”

The first presenter shakes their head. “Her name wasn’t recorded. Domestic servants were worked to the bone for very little respect, and apparently it's true here, as well. It may be that her name was struck from the record because she disappeared – or, there’s another theory that she was murdered for having an affair with the man of the house.”

“Ding-a-ling! Room service, please!”

“A woman died, you bastard. At least have some respect.”

“And yet you’re going to interrupt her eternal rest. Who’s the real bastard here?”

They duck into another bedroom, decidedly more minimalist than the previous one. A simple double bed with pastel-pink sheets is against one wall, and large cupboard with a door slightly ajar on the other. Whoever the resident is either doesn’t have that much stuff, or is brutal when it comes to tidying up – the only signs of occupation are loose sheet music on the bedside table, weighed down by a copy of _Emma_.

“How do we call her without a name?”

The first host does not answer, pulling out all manner of pointless light-up boxes from their bag.

While their companion waits, their expression changes and their eyes glint with mischief. Without warning, they put on an obnoxiously plummy RP accent.

“Girl! Yes, you! Girl! Come, you have work to do!”

A scratching noise emanates from somewhere in the room. The microphone also picks up the first presenter muttering “Oh, hell.”

An ashen hand with scarlet-stained fingers appears, eliciting a cry from one presenter. It becomes a wail of panic when a headless, blood-soaked maid claws her way out from beneath the bed.

_(The fake blood is supposed to be non-staining. They hope that’s true; they hired this costume.)_

The maid takes a clumsy swing at whoever may be nearby (no-one), stumbling, grasping and snatching at the air, desperate to find whoever did this to her. The camera operator is frozen in place, providing excellent coverage of her hopeless search – and the moment the second presenter moves into frame. The maid grips their shoulder, and does nothing further.

_(Katherine Howard didn’t expect this to happen. They were_ supposed _to take the sensible option and run away. Is the – what was the phrase Nan used – is the cat out of the bag?)_

“Oh,” the presenter’s laughter is devoid of mirth, despite the fight to keep a smirk on their face. “It’s a joke! Can you smell the mint?”

The first presenter cannot manage anything more articulate than an “Eh?”

“Fake blood, mate! It’s mint-flavoured for stage stuff! This is someone trying to mess with our work, the bloody cheek! See? Not real, it’s –”

The second the other presenter puts his hand on the stump of the neck, their eyes widen as they realise it _is_ very definitely real.

The previously confident presenter rips themselves out of the corpse’s grip. The maid raises a hand and has another go at the person who accosted her, almost like a slap – it misses by a mile.

The first presenter whips around to face the camera. “Go! Go!”

The viewpoint suddenly tilts to one side as the other presenter rushes past, followed closely by his partner. The camera swivels to the maid, again, who points a bloodstained, accusing finger. The door is slammed shut as the camera operator hurries after the presenters.

_(Oh, good, they shut the door. That will make things easier._

_Out of curiosity, the body of Katherine Howard reaches up and touches the exposed flesh and muscle at the top of her neck, and shudders._

“ _Eugh,” comes a voice from the cupboard. “It’s almost_ worse _that I can’t feel the touch there.”)_

The presenters almost bust down the door with the force and pace of their knocking, and yet they seem surprised when the tenant opens it with a look of annoyance.

“ _Yes?_ ”

Under her burning gaze, the presenter’s terror fades into contrition. “Sorry for interrupting, but, um, something’s come up, and we just want to get a second opinion.”

The woman’s face is blank for a moment as she takes this information in. _Was that all?_ she might be thinking, _Would they truly disturb me to confirm their irrational fears? What sort of self-respecting paranormal investigators ask for a second opinion?_

“I doubt you would try and break down the door for nothing,” she says slowly, “very well. What is it you need me to analyse?”

She steps out, leaving the door to the room open. The hosts lead them to the offending bedroom, which they do not dare to enter themselves. She raises a brow at their cowardice, or perhaps their lack of chivalry, and does it herself.

The camera peeks over her shoulder. The room seems empty. No sign of any headless murdered maids.

The woman sighs, and heads in. The production follows behind her.

_(They don’t hear the whisper from the end of the hall, “Now!”, nor the sound of two people creeping from one room to another.)_

“What, exactly, do I need to see?” she asks.

“There was someone here,” the second presenter answers, a bit like a naughty schoolboy in the head teacher’s office. “Dressed as a maid.”

“That does seem as bit unusual for a home invader.” The woman looks around, under the bed, poking her head into the cupboard _(giving a wink to the woman hiding inside, surprising both of them)_ before shutting it again. “I see. This is a trick. There is no way for them to leave this room but the door, and I did not see anyone exit.”

With an aggravated sigh, the woman storms past them and back to her room, muttering to herself. The camera follows her movements, and then those of the presenters as they power-walk after her.

“This isn’t a joke,” the first presenter cries. “Seriously, this isn’t the format – we tell stories, we have a bit of banter, then we do something special at the end! We don’t get other people involved except for narration!”

The door is already mostly closed, with only the woman’s disgruntled face still visible. “Why on earth should I believe you? You falsify paranormal activity for the sake of ratings, views and attention. You do not respect the individuals whose misery you build your fame off of. Why on earth should I pay any mind to your stories?”

On ‘stories’, dead hands reach from behind and clamp themselves on the woman’s shoulders. A figure dressed in Victorian finery and a sackcloth is visible only for a moment, as is the flash of panic on the woman’s face – then, the door slams shut, and will not open.

_(Parr takes the panicked yelling as her cue. She leaves the study and stands by the front door, waiting. Meanwhile, Jane is peering out of the window at Anne, playing the role of the impaled woman (tapping at the windows to prevent any further breakages)._

“ _Do you still have the rope from Anna’s thing?” Boleyn is asking her. “I need to get back up there, and they’ll freak out if they see me dressed like this.”_

“ _Why? I thought that was the point.”_

“ _Well, y’see, I think someone’s already playing this role.”_

_Jane frowns. “That doesn’t sound right. We’ve all agreed on the parts we should be playing.”_

“ _Yeah. It’s the original, Jane. The actual ghost.”_

_Jane looks out along the street, stopping at one particular point, before drawing back with an expression of horror._

“ _Oh, dear.”)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Found a really nice point to cut the chapter in half. Took the opportunity.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for hanging and body horror.

Good videography has taken a back seat to getting out alive. The world through the lens blurs as the three rush down the stairs to the font door, but someone rather unexpected is blocking their way – the writer from before.

“I thought you said we wouldn’t see you,” Presenter One growls, almost accusing.

The woman raises her hands in surrender. “I just forgot something. Why are you jumping down my throat? I’m sorry, did I interrupt filming?”

“No, something else did. We need to get out. Now.”

“Um, okay?”

The writer tries to turn the doorknob. It doesn’t budge. They turn the latch. Still nothing. Dread spreads over her face as she tries again, again.

“I don’t…” she mutters, “why isn’t it working?”

“Out of the way!”

Presenter Two charges, shoulder forward, and runs straight into the door. It does not take it off it’s hinges – all it does is cause them to fall over and yell “Ow!”

The first takes out their phone, the screen casting an eerie light over the three.

“No signal. They did a walkthrough. They checked everything would be safe…” they say, their voice quivering.

“It _was_ safe,” Writer snaps. “What’s going on? What have you done?”

The second presenter’s inner naughty child returns, the determination to defend themselves prevailing over more pressing matters. “Nothing! We made some jokes, went into some rooms, there _may_ have been a few off-colour comments about the maid who was murdered for having an affair –”

“ _What?!_ ”

_(Parr feels terrible, now, even worse than when the awareness that something’s gone wrong first wormed its way into her brain. She would have_ never _let Kat play the maid if she knew_ that _was what happened!)_

“The lady’s dead,” One stutters, and Writer seems _less_ concerned by this for some reason, “she – the sack man – grabbed, hanged –”

The failed attempts to make a full sentence are interrupted by a loud, piercing voice from upstairs, echoing through the house. The first presenter shrieks.

“ _Hear me, living souls! You are in grave_ – holy shit! You two are, like, _so_ haunted!”

“Not now,” Writer begins, irritated, but stops, staring at the top of the stairs. “What are you doing?”

The camera focuses; the figure up there is straight-up just someone in a sheet. They’re not trying to hide it. It’s not even a _white_ sheet!

“That… is clearly just someone in a sheet,” states Two, as if it was needed.

“Ooh, top-tier investigators we have here! Don’t even notice all the apparitions all around ‘em!” The sheet moves, and whoever is underneath is clearly gesturing… behind the camera? “Like her! Do you see _her_ , oh wise and learn-ed scholars?”

The viewpoint whips around. Nothing is picked up on-camera, but there is a strange blue static at the corners on the image that shouldn’t be there. From the reactions of the group, however, there _is_ something there beyond the ken of technology.

“Put that down, please,” says one of the presenters, “or… back in your body. One of the two. You could have an eye out with that.”

“If you want to avoid being stabbed, I think you should go upstairs,” says Writer.

The production crew doesn’t need to be told twice. The memories of the maid and the ragged breathing pale compared to whatever is in front of them. Again, the world swerves and twists, while the ‘ghost’s’ voice is heard perfectly clear.

“Come hither, living mortals, if you want to stay that way!” Then, bizarrely, “Salt, par!”

_(“Salt, Parr!”_

_They have some in the cupboard, at Anne’s insistence, and Parr dives for it. The phantom – an eldritch approximation of a human woman at best – pulls the ghostly fence spike from their torso, wielding it like a spear, and stabs forward._

_It goes right through Catherine Parr’s chest. She barely reacts._

“ _Right. Now you’ve got that out of your system…” Parr shakes the salt in her hand. “Perhaps we can talk this out?”)_

_-_

They’re rapidly shepherded into the room the Impaled Woman should be haunting – front, right. The streets outside the window are shown by the camera to be empty, dead, but unclouded by any strange static.

There’s also a rope in here. A really long one. No explanation for it.

The ghost removes their sheet – they are in period dress, their corpselike makeup faded and smudging. They, too, smell of mint, but it’s quite clear _this_ person is simply in costume.

“Oh, okay,” mutters the first presenter. “That makes sense.”

Ghost nods, quite seriously. “Didn’t want you to lose your head. Important difference, though – _I_ was just going to give you a good scare. My… inspiration, if you will, might _actually_ be trying to kill you. While I kind of get where she might be coming from, we _will_ get in trouble if you die.”

 _That_ came out of nowhere.

“Excuse me? You can’t just say that. What exactly have we done to you?”

Ghost’s eyes go dark with anger. “Oh, _I_ should probably be thanking you, but that’s not who I’m talking about. How many spirits have you disturbed? How many hurtful, callous things have you done to the dead to keep people interested in the waste of resources you call a show? Did you not hear me when I said you were haunted?! _You carry them with you!_ ”

A soul-sucking silence fills the air. The very idea wouldn’t have occurred to any of the crew before tonight, this woman would be dismissed as absolutely bonkers, but the notion sinks in and their own mortality rises to the forefront of their minds.

“How many?” asks One, filled with dread.

“Less on you, if it makes you feel any better.” Ghost pauses, as if listening for something. “They’re waiting for you to die, so they can be freed – since you clearly don’t give a shit about freeing them otherwise.”

_(The latter host (and ‘host’ may be a far more fitting term than they realise) is far more guilty than the former; the bound spirits hang over their shoulders, flesh peeling from their bones, hollow eyes staring blankly down at Anne._

_There is also a chicken. It appears unbothered by its undeathly state, nor the theological implications of its presence._

_A dessicated medieval peasant raises a bony hand. “Just so we’re clear, we mean natural causes. We don’t want them murdered, or anything.”_

“I _want them murdered,” says a ragged 1920s businessman._

“ _And_ you’re _not in the majority, Dennis.”)_

The ghost claps her hands. “Moving on, we don’t want you murdered on our property, so let’s get you out. Unless you want to break your legs, the plan is to lower you out of the window using this here rope. Not terribly OH&S compliant, but neither is getting impaled by a spooky ghost-fencepost. Take your pick.”

“Rope,” replies the second presenter. It’s not even a choice. This is a far cry from unstable structures or asbestos, the usual dangers. How have these people survived here for so long?

“Now, I know some knots, but I never had a chance to practice them. Either of you two former sailors, or anything?”

“How do you know so much about ghosts?” asks the camera operator, speaking for the first time throughout all of this.

The woman pauses mid-way through tying the unexplained rope around the second presenter’s chest.

( _How is Boleyn supposed to answer that?_ I _was_ one, once, but I got better, thanks by the way? _She’s already let on too much.)_

“I’ll probably get in trouble if I told you,” she answers, in a tone that brokers no further discussion.

The mood, from thereon, is tense – unlike the knots. Whatever abilities Ghost may have, practical outdoorsman skills are not among them. In fairness, the knots do need to be loose enough for the ‘payload’ to be able to untie them, but this is just sad.

Throughout the process, Ghost is mumbling to herself. “Where’s everyone else? Anna was on a boat once, wasn’t she? Would _she_ know knots? No, no, _I’ve_ been on a boat and I don’t. Maybe Jane, with all the bloody needlepoint…”

A sharp knock at the door startles them all, the second host almost fainting on the spot. The ghost narrows her eyes – at what is uncertain.

“Ghosts would just walk right through. Come in!”

The door creaks as it is opened, but thankfully for all the person on the other side is corporeal. A rather plain woman in a grey cardigan, with that look of passive anxiety on her face which tells you everything is a worry to her. Of course, it’s quite clear that there _is_ something to worry about.

One is not happy to see her. In fact, they are petrified.

“You! Car!” The first presenter tilts their head to one side, then pulls it back in place with their hands. “Krrrk!”

_(This was always the intention – Jane would be portraying herself, acting as the ‘ghost’ in any room the crew entered that wasn’t already occupied, while helping out everyone else. The latter is still part of her duties, in her mind, but the former isn’t.)_

Cardigan looks directly into the camera, no answer to the accusation forthcoming beyond nervousness, confusion and a tightly clenched jaw. The expression is not unlike someone suffering from stage fright.

Ghost’s happy voice jolts everyone back to reality. “There you are! I was just talking about you! Is everything sorted? Well, not everything, but you know.”

“The things you asked me to do have been done,” replies the woman who is either named Anna or Jane _(those things being notifying the others, and prompting Kat and von Kleve to change out of costume)_. “What… exactly… are _you_ doing?”

“Ah, well, there’s a very stabby ghost downstairs blocking the door, so we’re getting them out this way. Once they’re out, they can run.”

“You’re… I see. Let me help.”

Presenter One’s high-pitched objection dies in their throat as Cardigan strides forward and immediately gets to work with the rope, weaving it into a harness that probably isn’t completely safe, but will do the job.

“Might not be long enough,” observes Ghost.

“At least there’ll be no broken legs.” Cardigan seems to immediately regret saying this.

The camera turns to the window in preparation – and stops there.

In an image once again clouded by static, the occupants of the room find themselves looking down not upon the street below, but an endless field of green.

“Plague…” Anna-or-Jane whispers in fright.

At least Ghost seems to acknowledge it’s a weird thing to say. She tears herself away from examining the sudden change of scenery, frowning.

“Um.” Suddenly, her tone becomes far more unsure. “Um. Hello. Could you, maybe, leave, please?”

The camera swings around to put the source of the fear in-frame – this doesn’t work, and the static doesn’t abate.

_(A young man, thin, pale, the flesh of his fingers blackened by necrosis, smiles from the corner. His inhuman eyes are filled with a curious – perhaps dangerous – intelligence. A victim of the plague, or something wearing his skin.)_

N̴̷̷͜͢͜͠O̴͟͏̴̢҉̷Ę͏̸̛̕͜͞͡S̶̷̡̢̧̕͜͞Ç̵҉̸̵̢̕͞Ą̷̴̛̕͝͠͠P̸̡̢̕͜Ę̷̵̸҉̶T̷̸̨͢͞͏̡H̸̸̡̡͏̶R͘͏̵̕̕͜͝͝O͏̵̸̧̛͘͡҉U̕͠҉̸҉̶̢̨G͢͏̶͏͜͏̨͟H̶̨̨͘͝҉T̵̵̢̧̛͘̕͞H̷̴͏̵̧̕͘͜E͏̴̴͝͏͏̷R͏̷̷̢͘̕͞͏E͏̛͠҉̧͞B͏̷̢̛̛͘͠U̸̡͢͠҉̶͘͝T̸̢͟͏̵̕͞D̴̵̢̛͘͜҉̵E̵̛͏̕͏̶̶̕A̶̴̧̛̕͘͢͟T̡͝͏͢͞͏͡H̴̴̢̛͟͟͞͝ , comes the message – it is a horrible, discordant screech that is heard through the microphone, that almost-but-not-quite sounds like a voice.

“I dunno what that means, but I think we should go,” says the ghost, grabbing hold of the camera operator and swinging the viewpoint to the door (catching the presenters making a break for it). “Another window! Bye-bye, witch-man, don’t follow us please!”

B̴̡̛͘͠͠͏͜Y̶̵̷̛͟͞͞E͏̸̷̢̨̕͝͠B҉̕҉̢͞҉͢Y̶̢͡͏͘̕͠E̵̶̕͝͝͡

“We should get everyone,” Cardigan stumbles over her words as they hurry out. “Catalina –”

“She’s dead,” Two answers quickly. “She got grabbed. Probably got hanged.”

Anna-or-Jane stares at him with a funny look on her face, before realising something. “Oh, right. No, I… saved her. Before that. That was one of the things I was asked to do.” She looks to Ghost. “Right?” Ghost nods. “Here, we’ll go to her together, then see what we can do.”

She goes to the end of the hall, which all members of the crew are unsurprisingly reluctant to do. Ghost tries to hurry them along, but that all changes when Cardigan freezes, her mouth open is a silent scream, watching something in the first bedroom with horror.

“Jane?” Ghost asks – confirmed, Cardigan’s name is Jane. “What’s up?”

The camera moves forward, going slowly down the hall and turning to face the room on the left. Strange, considering the woman was grabbed by the dead in the room on the right.

Suspended in the air by a strangely glowing rope, its image marred by the static, is the same woman from the beginning.

This is going to be hell for continuity.

_(After everyone had left – Anna to check on young Katherine, Jane to inform Anne – Catalina found herself alone, and a bit lost. This quickly changed to fear when she was grabbed from behind, mouth covered, and dragged into the opposite room by hands she did not recognise, grey and gnarled. She never saw their face, and wouldn’t have liked it if she did, but being hanged in your own house is distressing regardless of what sort of person you are.)_

“Help, please,” the woman says, in a fairly normal (if irritated) voice, not at all like she has the whole weight of her body pressing on her throat. Cardigan jumps into action, allowing the woman to rest on her shoulders and letting the rope go slack. With that, the woman is able to remove the noose around her neck – though it seems she has difficulty in grabbing hold of it, and it takes several tries.

“Are you happy?” the woman asks Ghost. Ghost simply shakes her head, deeply remorseful for some unknown disagreement.

“Um, excuse me.”

“Yes? Questions, I assume?”

Presenter One is reluctant to speak again, but does so despite everything. “Well, we’ll start with the obvious – how are you alive, exactly?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is because I simply refuse to die. Next.”

Two. “Why are you in this room and not the other?”

“I was pulled in here by a man – I think it was a man. The noose, to my worry, was already here and hanging when I entered. I am unsure how he got me up there with no assistance. Next.”

One. “What do you know about other ghosts on this property? What about suddenly being transported to the country?”

“I know nothing of the ghosts here, because I did not believe them present before today, but it appears they are displeased with your presence. I _also_ do not know anything about teleporting houses. Next.”

Two. “What’s this here card, then?”

“…Card?” The woman’s confusion quickly dissipates into deep exasperation. “Oh, Lord in Heaven, why must You test us so? _Why_ does preventing further disaster displease You?”

The camera turns. There is a small white card resting on the dark-wood vanity. It wasn’t there the last time they were in this room, and it doesn’t seem like the woman had time to put it there, what with the attempted murder and all. The ghost comes into shot and reads it aloud, with growing disbelief.

_Welcome!_

_It seems like previous residents of the house are attempting to murder your mortal guests against your wishes. As a preventative measure, I have adjusted the layout of the property so as to keep these individuals from finding and killing your charges. Please follow the red markings on the walls to find the exit. Regrettably, given my own nature, I cannot supply you with any more salt._

_Your Humble Servant,_

“And then there’s a circle with a funny symbol in it,” finishes Ghost. Then, her eyes widen. "Oh, hell in a handbasket. I know what that means."

Without any further warning, there is a sudden, deafening groan, the sort of noise felt in one’s very soul. Everyone corporeal startles, looking up and around, and shifting on their feet. The camera shudders and shifts. Some come to the conclusion quicker than others, but all of them reach it eventually – somehow, the house is moving.

“The others!” cries Cardigan, “I have to warn them!”

She rushes out before the woman nor Ghost can grab her. The woman yells after her, “Jane! No!”, but it comes too late. Her saviour disappears from sight.

The camera moves, bit by bit, to the door. The visual snow that has come to denote paranormal activity quickly turns into a blizzard. What is shown…

It defies comprehension. Hallways, endless hallways, all like the one they’d just come out of, stretching this way and that and bending into impossible shapes, are as far as the eye can see. The camera pans up; there is a full sky of architecture unbound by normal spatial physics, alien in its geometry.

There is the faint mumble of “Oh, God,” from an unknown party, and the camera cuts out.


End file.
